POETRY
When a Question Curls into Gentle Vowels
Ariel So
They say home is a place bearing on loved ones, an easily misplaced
location in a stranger’s arms, and love is walking hand in hand,
not knowing whether the road intertwines into a long-winded
argument, or if the jazz catapults to an end in its
first step. A state of being, sitting on the couch,
his leaning forward, my leaning back, then his leaning
back again, a cha-cha of movement. His stuttering speech,
my hesitation to spit rumination out the window
when I feared there was always “this, and so much more”—
that to say what I mean was “not what I meant, at all.”
Instead, his ellipses of utterances brought me to
the saxophone musing into non-treaded places,
toes tapping to syncopation, words understood at
their own measure. Soon, there would be no more queries,
his door belonging to another stranger’s hands, and our
moon-shaped crusted eyes as trinkets of that ungodly
hour. Sometimes, a question is answered. Other times, the answer
is a home without the asking; the dance is all there is to be said.