Bikira wrote me from her southern triangle -
she wrote me bright, a shining circle.
"My love," she calls me, "true pureness."
We've been apart for over a year.
Continents and oceans amplified her circle-memories,
my pet name turned to her symbol
of the memory "circle's blinding freedom-light."
She wrote me a part of her,
imagined i was done piecing me together,
free of closets and rough-edge insecurity.
"Your pureness is so beautiful and true.."
What has she written me? My part
becomes a deity,a template, far lover -
that i never really was for her.
Understand, now, i miss the circle, too.
In our unity, we felt ourselves unique.
We wrote each other nothing, but made
selves with all's love, with all together
we transformed; and the light was bright.
And the circle healed me, and her,
and then we all had to leave.
And of course, every letter was inescapably
a love letter - we all, loving, loved.
I took my patched beginning and added,
forming embryonic circle, though it turned triangle -
sharp-cornered and unbalanced; wrote to her,
with each letter she clung more desperately.
She wrote me gradually, i didn't notice.
I was busy mending myself and others
and had become what i am not
by the time i left for home.
We have each started another new life.
Bikira seems happy with her new threesome,
and some find me enough to
learn to love, to develop new circles.
But she still writes to me, writes
me: "i miss my wholeness with you,"
and i feel a guilt like stone,
like spinning until gravity won't be denied,
like slow sickness that i try resisting.
And looking closer at her new triangle,
she says it is the circle, me.
I "have to meet" her other two -
points, vertices, lovers - i've tried that shape;
i need a rounder feel, more whole(some),
i am still grasping for circumference and
for centers and i don't really glow
but she claims, "they are a reflection
of the beauty, i see in you."