Dolor sit amet

DOLOR SIT AMET

by E. S. Taillon

The perfumed oils merchant sells
next to the herb merchant. I remember
when the world was a fresh green seed
splitting under your fingernail, when
cats’ paws sank into terra cotta and
the plain air tasted like sustenance.

Confusion reigned over good and bad,
what was healthful and not. Eventually
it would become a question of good
and evil. We stood and debated
the existence of motion before we took
our first steps. Things had to be established.
Stakes planted in the ground sprouted
wooden buildings that calcified to stone,
massive cities that looked so young
next to the mountains and the sea,
lost children. Trees fell over themselves
to grace our palms with linden and fig.
The first wedding was standing room only
but you almost had to drag me
to the first funeral. As though a shroud
could keep death contained. 

Our hands resting peacefully on the stone,
sun-baked, close together. You listening
to me naming perfumes before
language existed for them: the lavender
smells like lavender, the olive like olive.
We packed the earth hard under our cities
and dumped what we refused until nothing
grew. 
Our hearts hardened to the yield of trees.

The first knife was forged to carve fruit
into easy slices for a beloved. Only later
did it taste blood. You asked why lavender
and I rubbed some on the back of your hand. 
Sleepless philosophers turning on their bare beds
trying to prove they exist.
As though there had been some misunderstanding.
I understood evil when I watched you grow smaller
among the mountains, while I remained as vast
as myself, burning on the spot.