My Mind enjoys climbing trees.
It loves the feeling of aging wood against its palms,
getting dirt underneath its nails;
because when it reaches the top branch
it could see the sun disappearing down the street --
where days always end.
Shades of summer in all its ochre tones,
sinking deep in an ocean
of obscuring leaves and dead ends.
It could see nighttime triumph above
as the sky lies like a sleeping child,
being blanketed by a sheet of calming darkness. I could see it from below the tree.
My Mind would then bow its head and look away.
When it climbs down, I would ask, "What's wrong?"
It would look at the bruises on my heart, pain
that were no longer there, or so we thought --
hues of black and violets,
and it would whisper,
"The resemblance is too much."
But when the stars began coming out,
just a few were enough
to make us forget. My Mind is also fond of open windows
on high floors. It can't resist the impulse to jump out
just to get a taste of air. "What if you die?"
I once inquired,
grabbing its hand
before it could take flight.
In the place of an answer
came only a smile
before the leap of faith. I didn't argue
or try to convince it to walk with me
down the stairs.
Instead, I leaned in and watched it
tossing itself into a free fall.
I sighed, wishing I was just as brave. The truth is, I know why
my Mind smiles at the thought of death.
It knows it would die
in peace. Its last moment, spent
filling its lungs with the kind of air
only courage
to do something you love could give.
The wind would be the first
to kiss its cheeks good night.
And by the time it reaches
the ground, gravity would hold out its hand
to help my Mind up and out of the scene,
where a halo of blood would be forming
around its head.
"How beautiful,"
my Mind often thinks to itself,
"to die an angel."
