The young Earth sleeps a fitful sleep.
Her oceans, rivers, dreams grow deep.
Her people shout and she can’t wake
Until her fitful fever breaks.
Like a glacier must flow,
I need you to know some things you can’t see.
It’s going to be different for me.
I had to fight so hard to be happy,
to be proud. And I did,
and now I can’t put it down.
So what I need you to know is this:
I’ll still be holding it.
I will hold your hand up to my eyes
and marvel at how it looks in mine,
and I will be happy, and I will be proud,
and I will do my best not to think
about what feelings one is allowed.
And I will hold on, but to do so
I will put no part of me down.
I kindly ask you to remember that
my arms will be a little full always already.
(but not too full)
The side of my face
that was facing the sun
knows about being burned
slowly by a loved one.
The thing about doves
is that they’re pigeons.
The thing about grass
is that it itches.
The thing about love
is that it is made of glass
and not religion. Anyway,
I’ll see you after class
How he holds his hands
in front of him, palms out,
speaking softly as if to a
spooked wild creature,
reassuring it he won't
approach too quickly.
That he is safe.
How I've waited to be
approached in good faith.
How I've sat at the window,
mind far above the room,
breath catching with the shadow
of every passing bird.
How I've willed it to be
one of us, swooping in,
tapping the glass with the
holding end of her broom.
She'd raise her hands
like I was a wild songbird
she didn't want to fly away,
and softly say,
I haven't said a word.
And I'd say, I know.
I recognize you, too.
The rusted chests of robins
are bobbing in the breeze.
Their little feet above
their heads, isn't it odd to see?
And just as I’m about to dare
this bird a bat to be,
I blink and see instead
the clinging of the leaves,
The duck with the voice of a smile,
The finger that follows the thread,
The dance with the air of beguile,
The tree with the flowers in red.
The dirt on the back of the shovel,
The sigh at the foot of the bed,
The bird with the flight of remembered,
The life that still lives in the dead.