introspection

It occurs to me periodically
that I don’t actually have anything original to say
or any clever way of saying it. The sheer pointlessness of
what I’m doing is staring me right in the face.
It’s glance is cool
and calculating like the murderer in a paperback novel.
It blinks twice.
I stop typing.
I’m not really saying anything anyway. I look away
start typing again.
The sound of the keys like a frightened child
talking to hear her own voice.
It begins to whistle
a soft wistful tune, like something from a black and white movie
I’m finished. I never had a chance.
I swallow hard and look up again, preparing. Then I close my eyes.
The silence ensues.
It is deep and sweet and feels like anything
but the destruction I thought was coming.
I am lost in this.
I can swim in this noiseless void.

small talk

she talks about religion and politics
things that are Important to her
and things that aren’t
the neighbor’s dog the boss’s new secretary
what people say about her favorite scarf
she talks to fill the space
you nod politely, sip your wine
and as she turns her head to look out over the bay
stare at the soft hollow between her collarbones
augh! that tiny pool of perfect skin
her neck flowing down to it like the mythical river
separating the living from the dead
if only you had the right coin to cross over

an economy of words

I keep guard over my words
I stand against the throng
that clamors at the opening of my mouth
like starving refugees
and I am the steel-eyed border official
checking credentials
denying thousands without remorse

remedy

my body is infected with grief
my food is poisoned with it
my tongue is swollen so I cannot spit it out of my mouth
the air is permeated, thick and sticky in my lungs
it clots my blood
it boils the vitreous centers of my eyes
it hardens my sinews and cracks my bones
it eats my liver and spleen like a hungry cancer
I claw at the pregnant ground until my fingers are rotted with it
I shriek into the putrid night until my voice is empty of it
my body is infected with grief
the medicine? it is ashes and dust
useless now

convergence

the viscous syrup of summer heat
thins
and becomes fluid
like a curtain that dances out to graze a passerby

fireflies rise from the deep
grass
and beckon me
like tiny beacons lighting treacherous shores

the silhouettes of the trees
darken
and contrast the sky
like paper cutouts set up in a shadow box play

i feel the hum of the earth
slow
and grow deeper
like the sound of a child’s toy running out of batteries

violet
is the time
and the hour is
still
silenced
by holding its breath

these are the moments of in-between time the moments waiting

the dusk lies against my skin
softly
and heavily
like an old quilt patches made of all my stories

these are the moments of the in-between time the moments of my existence

the way it sounds

so we sat and whispered
together
with our eyes closed
against the burning night

and sometimes when we’re not talking
the silence seems measured
and the sounds we make
to others are
calculated
not to be mistaken for speech
commiserating noises
wind in the door latch
creaking stairwell
invisible things breaking twigs
in the underbrush
of human emotion

so we sit and whisper
together
about the times we had as children
and the night burns on
and I hate
the way it sounds when we say
the past is gone

genesis

two-seventeen a.m.
my mind wanders towards
the steel and porcelain
gleaming oasis in the night watches
cold and real
amid the wastes of half imagined
sounds and bleary thoughts
traffic noises and stars I cannot see
from my seat at this desk
glinting bleakly
beyond their deaths
sleep evade me one more hour
that I may stumble numbly
down the darkened hall
into the blackest depth
my hand knows where to find the switch
where to cause this almost-miracle
enveloped in the night
ex nelio
the hard cold fixtures
from the chaos of the lonely dark
now ritual sets in
turn on the faucet cold as it gets
hang my hand beneath
feel that the water is real
that I am real
believe that I am still alive
and only now
is it safe to look into the mirror

I am alive
and she is dead and that is that
that is that
that is that is that is…

Familiar Glow

So, for the past three weeks the weather has been warm enough for me to start looking for fireflies. I know before I say anything about it, or even before I look, that it’s too early. The thing is, I spend weeks looking and when they finally come out, I’m always taken by surprise. The feeling I get when I see the first firefly of summer is still that magical feeling I got when I was five.

There’s that sudden excitement and recognition at the impression that there is still wonder in this world. There’s that vision of deep blue sky and dark dewy grass meeting to form that beautiful horizon of a peaceful dusk–right when the silhouettes of the trees and the hills are darker than the sky. There’s that slow hum of the earth caught in the moments just between day and night. There was always a perfect balance to those moments and they gave me a sense of security like nothing else could. I waited for the fireflies, I looked for them, and they came. The way they would rise from the earth just during that brief time would instill in me such awe and curiosity. The very idea that they could lie in wait all day and come out only just at dusk to greet the world at its most peaceful time almost made me envious. It still does sometimes. I think I felt that they were coming out for me, to reassure me that all was still right with the world and that simple things can shine too. I used to imagine being a firefly. I’d have no troubles, no pains; I’d just lie and wait to be beautiful, to be some child’s hope.

I guess I still look to the fireflies to find my peace sometimes. That’s why I can never seem to wait for them to show up each summer. The anticipation of reliving those sanctified moments of my childhood gets the better of me. I know that they’re there all day waiting to fulfill my expectations, waiting to illuminate my dreary little life, waiting to remind me that I can find peace. I just have to wait.