Here We Are
by Linnea Johnson
6 February 1988

A flatbed truck with a load of bricks fired to granite
hits a wall stronger, harder than all of it.
Most of the bricks fall off,
is how it is for me.

Done with all that and 40 years old,
finding you after having sat for three days,
full moon, new year, on the force of my parents’ grave.
Letting go, closing up shop.

A new voice singing,
hearing stories I have not heard,
would not hear,
ears curled like seals,
curdled like stone milk in the breast
of a woman whose baby has died
or won’t have her.

No one believes that I have arms for you,
open ones.
Will allow you, embrace you, pull you into “in my life.”
A life kept and green and controlled as the gardens
you leave to come live with me.

What I have allowed myself to love has died,
has grownup, been published, harder than stone.

But all at once I know—
Here I am.
Full moon face on the force of your life
Listening to you tell me that you love me, want me.

Here I am.
Done with all that would keep me from you,
saying “I love you. Want you.”