The mime artist confronts me, lithe and contorting, nuancing as best she can with her eyes. Masked and distanced, her gestures rage out loud and proud, yet I do not understand, I can’t even take her hand to console, to reassure; so now she’s rubbing her eyes with feigned clenched fists but the sorrow doesn’t translate; such sobbing falls on deaf ears, yet it screams to my soul: She’s in her world, I’m in mine, dimensions apart, both of us born again infants deprived of facial cues.
A consumed moon’s meagre light; I pause, mourning this grey life. Let me look at you — ear lobes like pearls from tissue, the emollient pallor of your royal flesh. My finger probes your lips as an owl hoots its presence: I imagine your soul, the skulls of saints