Tonight We Walk Through Walls

By Jeanne Ellin

Strip off that decade, those, and two more
while I do the same. This wall will not accept the
thickness of our years apart. We’ll feel lighter,
tighter, lither. Ribs rise with new/old ease.
This room’s walls are semipermeable. Regret and 
years cannot pass through. Only our age-
stripped selves. Who we were each to each
blended in the passing with who we are.
No guilt here. No other tie can stretch within
these walls. No ‘Why’ No ‘Why did…’ Not one
‘Why didn’t…’ No ‘How could you’ or ‘Did you?
Do you still?’ No questions where we can give
no answers. We cannot change what we did
or did not do. Just us in this room. Our youth’s
light barely shaded by our slow grown patience,
till we shed that. Pass it back unwanted.
We have been patient too long. Instead glow,
blaze with joy. See the Emperor sized mattress
too wide to fall off. It is securely on the floor.
Kisses smother questions. Skin scorches regrets
to vapour. Within walls that don’t exist shared
bodies remembered as they were. We are now.
When we resume the weight of decades this
experience won’t embody in words. Memories
 sliding, slipping resist being solidified. Seeking
cellular sanctuary, wordless, in hollow organs.

Jeanne Ellin, 74 is  happy to find age and disability do not hinder joy in creativity.

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