Peter pressed the issue
About the past
He said it is a bridge
Collapsing behind
With every step
In space or in the mind
The sound of crumbling
Is all that remains.
Anna disagreed
And touched
The back of her head
She said,
“The past is braided
here next to my skull
interwoven threads attached
cascading down.”
The debate rolled around
Like a tumbleweed
Dry and filled
With agitation and
With wind and
Picking up the dust
Of misunderstanding and of
Disconnection.
“But I remember,”
Said Anna, and
“I do too,”
He whispered into
The air heavy with
Distance between
Her admission and his
Isolation.
Invisible walls
Erected between
Murky like swamp water
Disorienting like smoke
Cloudy like breath on glass—
And if he looked with only eyes
He would have turned away
Like fear.
In his imagination
He was strong
Moving along
The path in between
His hesitation and
Her vacillation
Conquering impending
Devastation.
Peter felt bolts
Screw through his feet
Into the floor
Caught between
Tomorrow and
Before
The middle of the moment
Weighted like an anvil.
He felt like a clown
Tears rolling down
Behind a mask of
White painted on
A smile red
Withdrawn
From the truth
Within.
Anna said a simple thing,
“You are afraid
of the future
and I run from
the past
maybe the middle
is all
we have.”
Something true
Like a flash of lightning
Filled the room
Forced
Confusion to scatter
Like bugs or
Like demons
Who dwell in the dark.
They stood in the kaleidoscope
That splashes
Onto eyelids pulled down
After sunlight exposes
Reality
Leaving only
Shapes and pigments
Behind.
Peter did the thing
That frightened him
Most
And Anna met him
There
He stepped into the future
She let go of the past
From the middle she whispered,
“Stay.”
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Tag: intimacy
Poem: Like Any Woman
It was not what she said
Instead
It was the way she held
The stem of her glass
Between freshly painted
Fingernails
Details
Red wine and red.
She breathed in and out
Like any woman would
Except
The silk in her dress
Gathered and fell
With inhale and
Exhale—
I waited for the next.
Her laugh was too loud
No clever disguise of
Civilized
Formalized veiling her mouth
Instead
Candlelit stares
In the face of she
Whose savage joy mesmerized me.
There was a soulful tune
Permeating the room
Penetrating
Armor I knew
Well beyond its usefulness
But
I had grown accustomed to
Until I felt the thrust of she.
Never before had her eyes
Encountered mine
“Hello,” I said—
Enunciation tranquilized
Words fell all the way back
And slid
To the sharpest point
Of her black high heel.
It was not that I fell mute
Instead
I dared not dilute
Fortuity in the air
With words wrapped
In coherence or
Forced insistence
Of my own understanding.
I held my hand open
For her to take
Perceiving
Gently cleaving
To the feeling
If she lay her hand in mine
Her touch would both stop and
Awaken time.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Poem: Where Our Eyes Have Met
A single painting in an art museum gathers the gaze of countless viewers, linking people who will never stand there together.
This is a poem about that.
A hundred eyes
have paused at this painting—
or maybe a million—
a crowd distributed across decades,
all standing just where I stand now,
though wearing different shoes.
Some looked quickly,
some leaned in,
some tilted their heads
as if the angle held a secret.
None of them knew
they were becoming part of each other’s story.
The gold frame won’t say
how many people have stood here,
or how long,
or what they were hoping for.
Paintings don’t keep lists.
Still, I wonder
if your eyes
have ever touched this canvas
in the exact place mine do now.
If so, the colors would remember.
They are better archivists than we are.
A single brushstroke
might recognize you—
the way the spotlight sharpened on its surface
when you stepped closer,
the way it softens now
because I have.
We might have shared this moment
without sharing the hour.
Two visitors,
unlikely to meet,
connected by a patch of green
that neither of us layered
yet both of us trust.
It’s possible
the painting knows us both—
you by a trace of perfume,
me by the giggle I released too loudly,
you by the tear you wiped away quickly,
and them by a single loose thread
from their bright red scarf.
All the while,
it stays exactly where it is,
patient as a held page,
letting strangers
complete the same sentence
with different eyes.
What an odd, prismatic intimacy—
to be joined
by something that never speaks,
yet answers
each of us
in turn.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Poem: Ice
The moment before, he knew.
She knew it, too—but she didn’t know
What it meant.
He had spent all he had in love
And in time—
For time is all we have to spend—
Not knowing that one second would turn into
Years.
The moment before, he felt.
She felt it, too, but it was in her mind—
What it meant.
Dripping with memories, mundane,
Like coffee brewing slowly—
For love steeps one drop at a time—
Her daydreams were painted in
Love.
The moment before, he released.
She released, too, but she didn’t expect
What it meant.
Embracing and letting go, to embrace again,
Was like brushing her teeth—
For some rituals cleanse even as they return—
He knew her expectation and knew he would
Fail.
In the moment, he could smell her.
She could smell her, too—and she knew
What it meant.
He started a fire between his head
And his heart—
For the heart stokes the kindling the mind provides—
But the embers burned deeper than he
Expected.
In the moment, he could see the glow.
She could see it, too, and she knew
What it meant.
The lingering warmth of his hand on her back
Felt like ice—
For ice signals death—
The frigidity was new but not exactly
New.
In the moment, his conscience writhed.
She writhed a little, too, and she knew
What it meant.
His goodbye lingered near,
Like a rattling snake—
For snakes wait, and then they strike—
And she stiffened her heart, bracing for
The end.
The moment was gone. The seconds counted
And done.
The hem of her gown swished away;
His countenance melted
Like fire melts ice,
And ice turns to water,
And fire boils it all to steam.
The end was the beginning.
The beginning was now.
He sat on the ground.
He looked to the sky.
The moon turned out its lamp—
And he knew what it meant.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Jill Szoo Wilson 