In response to reading A few words on the soul by Wislawa Szymborska

What suggestive role
do you prefer?
Saying goodbye?

or arms an arc; multiplied
open wide - receiving
quite willingly a warm body

small, adult, yelling,
screaming, crying,
deadpan, impatient

Giver of a wrapped
present, to reaching
hands; deft fingers

reaching into pockets
for something sweet
or the paper thinness of money

Where are you
in all this traffic
that refuses to

drown out the tidal front
of an adolescent’s moodiness,
voices left wanting; needful

Your face is half-formed
in the distance as if by
the inclement sea.

I imagine the weight
of the whitish wingspan
of the plane; your homecoming.

Here the soul is schizophrenic,
shuffled; grounded by the fierce
eye of the sun, channelled ranting

The end came quicker than was expected.
The origins of soul consciousness modelled,
drumming temporary beneath the surface.

I didn’t pick at it
This locked box left with
only a weathered soul.

We make contact
pick up the luggage
our heads now inspired

The milled soul is heir apparent
silent like thoughts, a flowing
river, stars in the sky; a grocery list,

a compelling promise,
a Masai warrior in the air;
always the candidate.