tho there will come a day when tomorrow comes no more
and all life goes far away in this three dimensional way
of having hands & feet, a mouth to kiss, hair to comb
a life to help others & put things away
all the ordinary events of the day
spent like coins of the Old Realm
to buy dreams in the New.
Do you think I should have refused?
was there a way to do things otherwise?
I came here to do this: to live as I have
alone & halfway water
belonging nowhere but where I am
and that only scantily.
it was a way to pay it off early
any debt I owed, any fault repaired
so I slipped between the bars & the barriers
to awaken here, my eyes wise with birth
soon clouded with living in so small a space
as a body – enlarged now tho it may be…
I complain no more
I tuck myself into a ball & keep rolling
I move because I can & because there is no other way to live.
And in the unexpected, ordinary morning
I catch myself looking up at a ragged sky
edged & egged in blue with the hoarse clouds ballooning
higher than life itself, the fragile bridges to a firm & total God
the creation in which I am as secure as individuality can make me.
I live now after dying to myself in so many spaces
And who I am is all I am, the wild paths fraught with winds
snatching my words & my blinking my eyes.
this is what counts: the here & now of forever
at which I stare, an idiot believing in sanity
not to be had here or now but only imagined.
With No Time to Consider Her Life
she did so anyway, the thoughts slowing her more
tangling her feet & tugging her ears
those old songs of faraway
no closer than before.
the now crowded about her
spilling into the future, disparaging the past
yet still she clung to what have you, to what might have been
as she clings to this now, knowing nothing else.
“I Was Alone, But That’s Not the Same as Being Lonely“
They spoke of families to visit, of grandchildren & sons,
nieces & daughters, of turkeys waiting to be carved
by the man of the house
while all the women know exactly how to use a knife.
a best-kept secret, that of life & death
where-over the women rule, washing the dead,
touching the wounds with aching fingers
mourning is the same as rejoicing
when death chooses another & calls out its hooting cry.
we women shudder & move aside for we are not the targets
we are only life symbolic & whole, uncommonly bested by life or time or tide
until we say “Basta!” Enough! Until we hold up a right hand to stop the tide no man can ever claim
the secrets all live inside of us & even cutting us open will not these reveal
their seclusion is their elation
their joy is that of all of nature resplendent in the sun.
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