Spinning Still: A Poem

In the amber of a late October,

altered by illness

and a mauling from friends, we have

come again to London, and come

one to the other,

in truth,

it seems, for the first time

in twenty-something years.

These are our days.

Above us, white lines from Heathrow

streak the sky and a silver

airplane flashes past a tawny sun,

its underwing turned gold.

Ahead is Christmas. Outside

the bang-blast of fireworks,

the tread of traffic

dancing to the drum

of what must be done.

Not us, not now.

In here, our clothes removed, our skin

cells open, one to the other,

once a day, we practice

spinning love, while the stillness

of the season holds us,

bathed in the warmth

of something more.

It was you who led, as male

desire is wont to do. Erect, unyielding,

it cut to our truth.

And I who thought of practice:

that Buddhist word, that way

to be, to being

in the moment one is

in.

So now we meet each evening

– our passing and our coming life

suspended –

clothes off, upon a cushioned floor,

each time, it seems, anew,

each stroke the first, again,

in hours that know just what they hold

in this, our stilly autumn

in these, our goldspun days.

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Orna Ross