It’s 1:49 in my neck of the woods.
Time to head home….
There is a robin singing in a tree somewhere, telling the world he is looking for a mate. A robin sings in a tree somewhere, telling the world he has found a mate. The tree somewhere is a tulip in the neighbor's front yard. Spring has come. We drive by the same people, sleeping in bags on the sidewalk, waiting for the world to warm. (Been a little minute since I wrote one of these...)
That's what we had, maybe. One day before our faces. Now, this is where we are. Trying on well-fitting boots. We bought them. The book. The line. The sinking thoughts. Them too, we bought. “Fuck the farm, we bought the boat!” The oars and the ocean too. And then we threw them all in. Chopped the little ones for our chum and threw them in too. I can see them now, our pieces, moving up from the dark like bright fish. Our beautiful boat is eating us. This poem first appeared on my friend Jeremy Nathan Marks' project, Poetry of the Resistance.
This very moment, as you take in a breath to speak the next line or just to whisper it or just to sigh a little, a girl is letting out all of the breath in her lungs for the very last time as the building around her collapses. A man who is really just a boy is holding his breath without realizing it because he cannot grasp the fear that he feels as he starts to pull the trigger. He has no words for what he feels and she has no time to make words. And me? I am still breathing in. (I wish, on this day, to remind myself that what was for us an extreme punctuation to our otherwise and comparatively serene lives is in fact a fact of life--yearly, monthly, weekly, daily--the substance of the narrative--for so many people in so many places.) (This is, in a sense, a follow-up to this post, many years on) This poem first appeared on my friend Jeremy Nathan Marks' project, Poetry of the Resistance.