Posts Tagged ‘reality’

In the dream, it was clear,
I am the cable car
and love itself is the cable
beneath the streets,
that pulls me along
up the steepest of hills,
requiring nothing
except I hold on.
Though I can’t see it, it’s there.
Though I must sometimes let go,
I must always return to holding it.
When I woke,
the dream was fuzzy,
but the truth no less clear:
love has carried me.
All day I marvel
at the strength of the cable.
All day I am grateful
for love beyond understanding:
invisible love, powerful love,
a continuous unbroken loop.
Even now, I hear it
singing in its motion,
song of constancy,
song of trust.

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One Feeding

and if I dare dream

let it include the facts—

the bite, the open hand

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Dear Other Version of Myself,


In my calendar, it’s April second

and you are going to an event tonight

at a bookstore in another town

where the people will gather

and hug each other and taste

each other’s wine. You live in a world

that no longer exists, and every day

I try to reconcile it—how you

had plans to go camping next weekend,

how you were going to go to the theater

with no mask, no gloves,

no sense of your body as a weapon.


Every day, your life, which once was my life,

seems increasingly impossible.

Every day, these two worlds are farther apart—

the one in which you were getting on a plane

to visit your mother

and the one in which I put on rubber gloves

to go to the post office box.

I remember how seldom you washed

your hands for fear that someone you love

would die. I remember what it was like

to hug my friends with no worry

of harming them, to go to a restaurant,

to plan for a day past tomorrow.









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Thank you for blessing me with reality,

for showing me when I’m guilty

of what my friend calls cognitive slippage.

It’s like stuffing a big scoop of wasabi into my mouth,

thinking it’s guacamole. The mind believes

what it wants to believe until it’s shown otherwise.


Thank you for demonstrating how sometimes

I disconnect from the facts—especially when

emotions are involved. Like when I think

I’m a pool of warm soothing water

another could enter, but really, I’m a woman

made of bone and corpuscles. Little can I hold.


I always thought imagination was a gift,

but not, perhaps, when it puts me at odds with what’s true.

Dear moment, I want to be attentive. When you pull out the rug

from beneath my thoughts, I want to be the rug.

And when you poke my theories full of holes, I want

to be the hand that pokes, the fresh air that rushes in.

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and we will go

to the haiku cottage

in the mountains

where there are no roads

and there are no pens

and there we let ourselves

be written, the seasons

will shape our syllables,

the moon shall be

our cutting word,

and every time we think

we know what line comes next

we will thrill at how new

the world can be, sliding,

escaping, unswirling,

and calling follow me,

bring only wonder,

follow me



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staring at numbers

hoping to find, hidden in percentages,

a trap door

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While sautéing onions

in the warm kitchen

I find myself on a tire swing

arcing through fields

of night—

is it the sound of crickets

or the pungent scent

that makes me cry?

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Oh Geppetto, I could have told

those real boys always break your heart.

It always starts as a dream come true.

They cannot help it that they are real.

Oh the real girls, they’re no better,

all of us with our built in yearnings,

our essential fragilities.

I would not have tried to dissuade you.

A real love is better than one with strings,

regardless how strange and scary it gets.

Still, I would have loved to have warned you.

Not that it helps. Just because

sometimes it’s better to face

what is real together.

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In the dream, it was a man.
He pretended it was an embrace,
squeezing me as he did.

Getting dressed this morning,
still feeling the places he crushed

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Black Friday

Oh America, get out of the mall.
Get out of the box stores, the boutiques
and fast food drive thrus. I don’t know
where else you might go … a forest,
perhaps, or over to your friend’s kitchen
where there is a cup of tea and an empty chair
near the window where, if you look
out into the snow-filled yard you might just see
how lovely that light is as it escapes
one more time, one more time.

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