#71

it’s not the dying that’s so hard –
but this incessant surrendering o a life
you’d expected to beat.
against the odds we made it.
drenched and exhausted on some metaphorical shore
on an island of nothing.
we made it.
thank fucking god you were there too!
otherwise i would have swam back out to the sharks.
just said “eat me, cruelties, i’m through.”
But you were there –
reminding me we made it –
then this.
another round of chemo or fires or loss –
grief like a beggar lady we’ve simply let move in.
charming as the crazy and the sullen and the gone.
when i first met you
we had longing by the balls –
and we dared to cultivate everything –
desire, freedom, innocence –
loss. buried underneath honesty –
all of it true.
now this.
my awakening is thick like maple syrup
and dark like greed.
borrowing Medusa’s eyes
i sank the ship.
and again
you save me.

#69

sometimes staying in bed or just disappearing
feels like a better option
than one more pull on the bootstrap
or half-hearted acknowledgement
of just how silver the lining really is.
we are tired.
it does not seem fair that while children are starving
simply because they are not our own
and people around us are ailing and dying
simply because its “part of being alive” –
that we should have to also put up
with some hack job politic or crumby job
or even a hurt of our own.
we are really that tired.
i’m hoping it will be okay someday
for you to tell me how broken you are
and for me to just hold you
without trying to fix you
or telling you how fortunate you really are.
and i am hoping that once we have all admitted
we are worn to the bone
by all this busy-ness of being alive
we can go back to feeding people
simply because they are hungry
and caring for people
simply because they are ill.
i’m not sure there is much more to figure out than that.
maybe feeding and caring
would be enough to change the world.

#67

what would you do, heart 
without a cell phone ringing 
or me texting and snapping and retrieving
one hundred and fifty times a day?

what would you say, heart 
without me having to answer
every forty emails, deleting forty more
and bothering so much with Siri?

what would happen to you, heart -
in all your soft glory -
if you could just beat and love
and beat some more?
intuiting the vastness of stars
before night even falls.
catching his breath
before she walks into the room.
embracing my child before he walks
    away.

i remember when.
there was a feeling.
so much to feel       really.
    so much
more.

 

#66 Grief

grief is a quiet color - 

gardenia who lost her scent -

a reckoning.


grief is without an hour -

has no second hand -

the face on a clock, gone.


there is only space

and a vacuous ledge to lean into.

my fear - not of falling

but that i will jump.


when i am a whirling dervish of doing

i can only be one way -

productive.

my heart sits on the sidelines

cheering us both on

but would never dare to interrupt.


i come here to be reminded of the color:

magenta
 fuscia 
aqua marine 
blue 

a light yellow blouse carrying bones.

flesh and heart held up in the mix.


i come here to celebrate

even though i do not recall the occasion

until I am here

and sometimes
 not at all.


i sit.
i admit.
i pull away from the ledge

enough to breath

but not so far as to pretend

it isn't there.


my grief is a yellow tricycle -

empty basket -

under a timber of sun.


my grief is a magical final good-bye

i was not there to make -

with all the busyness

of being busy.

the doing of regret.


they say that is a stage of grieving -

as if recognizing its components

could allow for some dismantling -

but it is intact, i say.

as certain as a two minute timer.

this is how we are given a reprieve.

maybe even forgiveness.

the landmark for time.

#64

when i reached for the moon
and fell out of the crib
i was moved to lower ground.
when i fell out of the tree
and broke my ankle
i said who likes tree climbing anyway.
when i wrote a poem
and you said it moved you
i thought i could write forever.
then forever became a mighty long time
and somewhere i decided
it was maybe better not to reach.
or to climb
or to write.
because what if with falling
or breaking
or resting
i could no longer move you?
and what if not doing means not being?
and what if the climber leaps?

for Yvonne

i cannot say why
it should be okay
to have faith drawn out on a limb
        hanging     
        mid air
as if some sort of reconciling 
could warrant what's broken.

there is no word nor sign nor even prayer
that might at once undo the ruddy ache 
of having
and losing     and finally   
losing heart. 

what is terrible then
is that we love.
and our loving, like balloons in a hurricane,
is torn from us - 
even as we covet the softest sweetness inside - 
where only his aliveness has touched you - 
where only he has been

for you.

i imagine though
that he finds you - 
even now, through crooked slumber
and honest despair - 
where if your eyes were closed
you both could see
and even if you did not touch 
you both could feel -

there where your loving has allowed
a living 
and a leaving - 
and both as honest 
       as a thousand migrant winds -
back and forth forever undoing
and confirming 
what we think we know
about life
about death 
about love.