Cautiously, tiptoeing through the tulips, dancing in slow motion on eggshells, we might attempt to cross. But the skulled signs are everywhere and the risk is known. This emotional no-man’s land is well mapped. The wounded have come back time and time again to warn us. Don’t tread there, where angels fear to meet the unholy ground even with bronzed sandals shaking off stardust. There are some things which must not be said, even in a worried whisper, not in this house of cards.
No, instead, we must let fear prevail, and sidestep every accusation, lest the harpies swoop down, talons at the ready, shrieking in artificial hurt. And might we beat them away and continue, and find that, bloodied and forlorn, we reach the centre and see a creature to be pitied, encircled by explosives, and not so very different from ourselves? Might the ceasefire then be sounded, and a hand reached out, expecting to be bitten, breath held, as seconds pass and hopes rise, and a touch is begun, light as air and wanting, somehow to connect?
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com