The surgeons black marker
The surgeons black marker line traces across thigh . My initials close the deal. I remember how, late in the summer garden, a watermelon burst open under the pressure of my knife. - t.k.
[………… a wandering beggar, the friend of The Friend, told me how the fish,
even though he has lived in water his whole life, only comes to know the
meaning of water when tossed up on the banks.]
The body is made of vulnerability for Love.
Blood and sunlight mix under the surgeon’s scalpel. Flesh opens
like a pomegranate, seeds spill out secret scripts ….. mystery draws trails of red.
Mind’s freedom knows no boundary, untouchable by births and deaths, and, in this, unknowingly suffers a certain poverty. The Friend whispers into flesh, and life becomes …………..
and, in becoming’s pain, the meaning of Love is known.
Tossed on the banks as we are The Friend is cloaked in sunlight, clothed in flesh,
in the surgeon’s hand, the father’s touch. The Friend is made up whole cloth from Love.
But, as freedom is not an accountant, there is no tally to be recorded
regarding who and what did or did not ‘actually’ exist and……. so……… Love of water
is to the fish what Love of the Friend is to humanity.
Only the Lover can understand how pain lives in flesh as Love’s intimation.