Ten Years, and, Distance by Tess Ritchie
Ten Years
We drink coffee on dad’s porch
with the harbour standing by
a body big and knowing
Everything is moon-grey and still.
No one knows what to say
and suddenly we’re all choked
at the throats as if the freight train
in the distance catches in us.
What is this supposed to be like?
someone asks, maybe me,
but no one says a thing.
Everything is silver
everything goes hot.
I watch my brother
pull a sweatshirt-fist to his face
and press
and press.
For now he stops a rupture
but I see the rip that grips him –
being entirely known
from a distance.
Distance
Your jaw was like a cliff
your cheek bones were strength
your set brow hovered above
When I felt your face it was
hard bone under soft skin
as if one was protecting the other
Then there were your full lips
the most tender cushions
and, it seemed, the centre of you
One night when I held your
velvet head in my hands
heavy and close
you started to tell
me about your family. It came out rugged
and trembling
the colour of hurt
that’s been turned over
into fear
I wanted to comfort you but
the words they used were foreign
I wanted to hold your hands
but I couldn’t
find their shape
Instead we listened
to the tram come and go
while the room turned
mauve until
physically we were there but
mentally we were distance.
Executive Producers
Daniel Henson
Sue White
