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Archive for June, 2015

I had worn it so long, that mask,

I didn’t notice it no longer fit.

In fact, I didn’t notice I wore it at all.

Every day I woke up wearing the mask.

I wore it all day, then returned to bed wearing

the mask. I don’t even remember putting it on,

what, was it as a child? Slowly, we come

to take habit as truth. Besides, on the outside,

it was pretty enough. Placid and happy.

It was only today I noticed how on the inside,

the mask had hair of snakes, how I was being

surely turned to stone. I did not want

to break the mask. I did not know

what the face beneath it might be.

I was afraid to not like what I saw.

There is a call to be ruthless, our hands

rising to do what must be done,

though some voice we thought

was our own shouts at us to stop.

And there is another voice. Perhaps

you’ve heard it, too. I notice

it’s easier to hear it when the mask

isn’t covering my ears. It’s strange

today to walk down the street.

I don’t know what I might say.

I don’t know what I might do.

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One Confession

hold me, I say

then put on a dress

of thorns—

blood on your cheek, your hands,

I kiss you there

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By Nature

perky and open

despite the bad news—

isn’t that just like a daisy

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A Necessary Tenderness

Something is eating the peas in the garden.

It doesn’t actually eat them, just chews them off

where the stems meet the dirt. The plants

are left dead on the ground beside

the nubs of stems. All the more reason,

why we must hold each other tenderly.

Every day so much that is growing

is lost, seemingly for nothing. When

I planted the seeds, I wasn’t thinking

of metaphors. I thought only of peas.

Now, it’s impossible to stand in the garden

and be only beside the ravaged vines.

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Mercy of Night

Eventually there is only the sound of the river—

what sang all day beneath the sound of dishes

clinking in the sink, beneath the carousing of crickets,

beneath the shrieks of children and the messages

left on the phone, beneath the chatter of my mind

that always swings its creaky gates, what sang all day

is still singing. It asks nothing, and in this moment

it is impossible not to give it everything—though

that is when we might start to notice that beneath

the river’s constant rush is an underhush. As any

composer knows, a tune is lost without the rests.

Somewhere inside the river song is a dry, voiceless bed,

blank as the paper the symphony’s written on—empty

beneath the staves. Eventually there is only

the sound of the river. Then that, too, fades away.

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—after Alden Nowlan, “In Praise of the Great Bull Walrus”

I don’t want to be a super hero,

not every day for the rest of my life,

but for one morning, when not a whole lot

was going wrong with the world,

when Lex Luthor and the Joker

and whoever it is that steals

single socks from the drier were all

sleeping in instead of causing mischief,

well, that morning I would like to meet

Spider Man and Bat Man and Super Man

and the customer service woman at iTunes

who got me the whole refund after my son

thought he found a glitch in their system

and ordered $440 worth of gemstones

in Clash of Clans, yeah, her and the Green Lantern

and Emily Dickinson and Temple Grandin and the Hulk,

and all those other heroes, and, we’d be sitting around a table

in a sunny diner somewhere, not talking

for once about how to save the world,

just reading the menu, discussing the reasons we prefer

our eggs poached or scrambled or fried,

you know, something about the way

that the yolk when it’s not cooked too long

will spill its gold all over the toast, and

the waitress would come and pour us more coffee,

and there would be no reasons for anyone

to hop up from the meal and pull on their cape.

Nope, we’d just sit there as morning

yawned into midday chatting about how the rains

came at just the right time this year, and how

the fireflies were out last night, and did you catch

that new movie about the mother

who gets her kids ready for school every morning—

and then we’d just slip into that comfortable silence

that sometimes comes when the stomach

is full and the body is warm and you just

have that feeling that nothing could ever go wrong,

well, at least not for a while, not before

the waitress arrives to say that the bill

is on the house as a way of saying thanks

for all you do, just before the bat phone begins to ring

and the kids begin to fight about whose turn it is to

play with the toy airplane, and the identity thieves

steal Clark Kent’s name and the pirates board

another ship, before from the kitchen

there comes the scent of potatoes

burning on the stove.

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It turns out it’s just made up, the word sonder.

The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows says it’s a noun

that means, “the realization that each random passerby is living

a life as vivid and complex as your own … an epic story

that continues invisibly around you like an anthill

sprawling deep underground.” But it’s not made up,

the realization, as I noticed today at the pool in downtown Chicago.

I swim in a lane with an older man and a young obese woman.

For them, I will most likely always be nothing more

than an extra who showed up on the first clear summer day

after a week of rain, the woman in the black bikini and purple

goggles who shared their wide swim lane. The sun wove its light

through the chlorinated water as we swam back and forth,

back and forth. I would not have noticed them all, except

that there they were in my way and in my lane, though

I regarded them not only with small frustration but also

with growing curiosity. Who were they? What flavor

of ice cream did they like? Who had broken their hearts

and what were they sure they would never tell anyone else?

Were their closets clean or chaotic with hats and scarves spilling

out of uncloseable drawers? Did their mothers love them

or tell them they were worthless? Did they know how to fence? Or weld?

Had they ever been to France? Could they speak another language or sing?

I lived a life with them then, there in our lane where we never

spoke a word, our arms pulling us all in the same direction, toward an end

from which we always returned, though later not one of us would remember

who we shared that hour with, nor would we recall

how the sun shone so brightly, as if it were only for us.

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No Strings

Here, we might say, here is where

a road should be. But road there is none.

Isn’t that like us, thinking we know

the world better than the world itself.

There isn’t a road. That is clear.

And we want one. That’s clear, too.

And we don’t like the fact

there is no visible road.

Whether our intention is to run away

or to move closer to,

well, that changes, doesn’t it.

And isn’t it just like us to think

we need a road. Instead,

there is this change of light,

this scent of rain. There is

nothing we might call a path,

but there is this urge

to begin to move, this desire

that causes the legs to lift,

again and again and again,

less as if we are marionettes,

more as if there is some inner drive

more real than even the real world,

and it helps us step one more step,

one more step toward what we do not know.

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it’s not that I’ve never

seen a walking stick,

more that I’ve never noticed

I’ve seen a walking stick—

this rising urge to watch you

tie your shoes, hold a pen,

light a fire.

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Looking for reasons to justify

my anger with you, I found instead

a silver handle without

a pitcher, the scent of peonies,

a bush of ripened berries and a hum.

Is it any wonder my hands forgot

how to fight? That missing

pitcher filled with spring water,

that is what my silence wants

to say to your silence. And

that ripeness, that is what

my hands long to bring to yours.

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