when your arms close around me, protecting,
and I feel nothing; when I want to scream my
terror yet cannot name it; when the April
evening shivers like winter’s knife, and the
river seems a warm and welcoming oblivion; when
blue is the color of the air and earth and sky —
understand, my love, you cannot touch me there.
yet
the memory of love is all that brings me back.
*****
M.A. Mohanraj
March 18, 1996