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Posts Tagged ‘loneliness’

Kinship


                  after Jane Hirshfield
 
 
Oh look, I say to the cat
You have a soup belly. 
I jiggle and wiggle her soft, floppy middle.
She does not love it.
I get it, I say to her. Sometimes
I don’t want to be touched either.
More truly, I do want to be touched, 
but only in the way I want to be touched. 
The cat holds her paws midair, frozen there, 
as if not yet sure if to attack or relax.
She chooses relax. I choose 
to massage between her ears.
She nuzzles her small skull into my palm.
I know, I say to the cat. I miss her, too. 
We both know she’d rather be with my daughter.
We both feel the absence here. 
We sit a long time like this, the cat nuzzling, 
me dragging my fingertips forward and back, 
forward and back.
With her body, she shows me
just where and how much to touch her.
When I move to rise, she lashes out with a claw 
to keep me in place beside her.
In this way, I study my life. 
How to hold. How to let go. 
Loneliness wears a haunting perfume,
resinous, sweet, full of laughter
and silence. What a gift, I say to the cat, 
to miss her together. 
I cross the room. The cat follows to where I sit next. 
Later, she leads me to her bowl. I follow. 

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so grateful to share 
it with you—
this loneliness

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In the midst of cold,
past the fringes of darkness,
is this place of fire
where we huddle
at the edge of warmth
to relieve our chill
and regard each other’s faces
in the glow,
where we learn stories
of the shadows
and meet our own
darkness.
Loneliness is, perhaps,
believing there is no room
for us in the circle.
Belonging is knowing
every one of us
is the flame.

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How


 
 
The pond ice gone a single day,
and already the wild geese
have returned, filling the open water
with riotous honking. Even
the backyard feels like a teaching
of how every emptiness invites
something to fill it, if not feather
then feeling. I think of how
in my most lonely moments,
some strange beauty has wandered
into my vision or woven its singular
song into my ears and I can’t help
but feel infused by life, the way
a trickle of water slowly—
almost imperceptibly—
will eventually fill a vast basin
till its water spills out the gulleys.
Perhaps you’ve felt it, too,
when you’re barren. Void of hope.
Then. A pink cloud.
An unruly clamoring of geese.
Still that barren, hopeless feeling,
but also, there it is, a single green tip
of garlic planted five months ago
that finds its way up to the sun.

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Like Monopoly. Because you always ended up landing on Boardwalk

where the red hotel meant you owed two thousand dollars

and all you had were mortgaged railroads. Or like checkers,

because really, what was fun about moving small plastic disks

diagonally and hearing the other kid say, “King me.” And soccer?

Only because your mother made you because she wanted

to be coach. You did want to play school, but no one else did,

so you were the principal, the teacher, the student,

giving yourself homework, grading it yourself. Writing in red

in your best cursive at the top of the page, “See me.”

You didn’t want to play basketball, because no one else

ever chose you for their team. Even though you were tall.

And you were chosen last for volleyball, too. And t-ball.

And Red Rover. And dodge ball. Is it any wonder your favorite

way to play was to visit the junkyard and find treasure?

Or to walk along the lake to look for flowers and worms?

Is it any wonder you learned to love playing alone

in quiet rooms with an empty page and a pen?

There was no way then you could have known

that it would save you—no, you just thought

you were playing the only way you knew how,

walking through the only doors

you knew how to open yourself.

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Sometimes there’s enough joy

in the day that the you who is afraid to be alone

and the you who loves to be alone

and the you who is never alone

and the you who is always alone

all sit at the same table

and share a glass of wine

and though they say nothing

they nod in easy agreement

and wordlessly toast

to each other’s health.

The wine tastes of sunshine,

of yesterdays, of giving up,

a sweetness they can’t name.

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Loneliness is still time spent with the world.

—Ocean Vuong

 

 

It would be easier if loneliness would come to me

like the angel that wrestled with Jacob,

 

if it would slip by night into my tent

and rip me out of slumber,

 

force me to be awake and alone, but

there is no room in my tent.

 

I have already invited the circus.

We stay up all night and dance,

 

me and the tigers and fire breathers.

We practice swallowing swords

 

and how to best stitch

new feather headdresses

 

and red-sequined capes. All night

the ringmaster announces

 

the next act and the next, and

though my eyes would droop

 

and my body would sleep

and my heart would have time

 

for mourning, I force my dimming self

to clap as the clowns yet again

 

climb out of their tiny car

with their garish grins—

 

how could there be so many of them?

with their horns and their tricks

 

and umbrellas and balls—

so many clowns that loneliness

 

has no chance to slip into this place

where I entertain endless acts that prevent

 

me from wrestling, from asking,

please, to be blessed.

 

 

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One Wandering

 

 

 

 

before seeing the bush

the scent of a wild rose—

the crow and I alone together

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One Unfillable

 

 

 

still hungry

the thousand thousand mouths

of loneliness

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there are blessings,

though they are wrapped

in sandpaper—

perhaps by now

your fingerprints

are nearly erased

perhaps you’ve noticed

how this

is the gift

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