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Posts Tagged ‘exhaustion’

 

 

 

And though I can’t remember

what I wrote last night, which seems

like ten years ago, I rattle off,

a body at rest remains at rest and

a body in motion remains in motion

until acted upon by an external force,

and then, mid-sentence, I have some small

fantasy about being a body at rest,

a body at rest that stays at rest, a body

at rest that is somehow entirely unacted upon,

not by breakfast, not by school, not by work,

not by mewling cats or errant bears

traversing the porch, not by nightmares

nor bladder nor hot flash nor chill,

and I think to myself that Newton

was really, really on to something,

some sweet world he posits

that I now long for, a world

where a woman might find

such rest, might be such a body.

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One Trip

 

 

 

driving the back roads

for so long even my songs

are covered in dust

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But I’m Tired

If I weren’t so tired, I’d get out there in that garden
and grow some green beans, stringless and tender
and fleshy. I’d grow some grapes, then peel them
and pass them out to all my friends.

If I weren’t so tired, I’d plant some garlic for my mom.
I’d bake gingerbread men. Houses, too.
And then I would scamper up a mountain
the way goats do, and I’d do all that before noon.

If I weren’t so tired, I’d introduce a goldfish
to a gorilla, and then write a play based on
what they’d say to each other. I’d laminate maps
for migrating geese they could wear around their necks.

Yeah, I think I’d go to the tropics and pick up
all the old tails that geckos had lost and return them
to their owners. And I’d make special pillows
for baby giraffes to land on when they’re born.

So much to do, I’ve got grasshopper mind, jumping
and leaping all the time—from how I might help
the glaciers grow to how I might make the galaxy go
just a little bit slower so that there’s more time

for us all to sleep so we’re not always too tired
to do all the things we want to do. Like grow
some grapes, and peel them, too, then offer them
to good friends like you. Or just wash the dishes,

Or get dressed, make the bed. I would, you know, if …

*This is a G-poem for Lian Canty’s Alphabet Menagerie, http://www.alphabetmenagerie.com

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with thanks to Heather

swimming in this sea
of kindness and generosity
how is it
I sometimes do not notice
I am wet?

*

ten thousands droplets
escape the pond
in every direction
each time
I throw another stone

*

oh body, my vessel,
my vase, my cup,
I am sorry I spill you,
don’t fill you
enough

*

by the pond
the cranes forget
to fly away—
I choose not to throw stones
they choose to stay

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Weather Report

The night is long
and the song is gone
and the well is empty,
love. The well is deep
and there’s always
been more, but tonight
it’s been too long,
too long since it
rained, too long.
I’m so damn thirsty.
Nothing lasts, perhaps
not even this empty cup
this drought that seems
to have a foothold
in forever. I know enough
to know that I forget.
But it’s empty now
and the night is long.
Sometimes when the well
is empty, it’s the perfect
place to sing—the notes
spill over, spill
over themselves
and fill up everything.
But not tonight,
the song itself is parched,
and the well is dry
for so long that spiders
have spun their webs across
the floor, so empty
the moon doesn’t
bother, so empty
not even tears
come down.

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