i'm still thinking about how mama
said hold fast to your happiness
white knuckle the chain and strap
it to your shadow--
how i'm still so reserved, as if joy
were a bird or a butterfly, a flightless
insect trapped between my fingers,
who i've peered at many times through parted thumbs
and blown wolf whistles just to force the gale winds out
of my soul, to gust the incorporeal detritus out of the corners
plunk giant oars into soft green waters, to dive, dive, dive
where the waters rush in, in tremendous gulps
slamming into the walls, curling into the middle--
he'll never find any of my body there, the hips he loves
have never bathed beneath these floral pastures, i am truly
none of this and all of it, nothing but the amalgamate of
sounds, of heartbeats, clicks and murmurs, of sudden silence
of comfort if such a thing were to be seen
if he could see, or hear or dive
he'd know i've never worn happiness
not as an extra limb or a shawl, rarely
as a smile, even he has called those short
slips banker dimples to emphasize my
lack of authenticity
no, it's smaller, wider,
smooth warm stones, the heaviness of rice
the grain of oak, the gentle selah in Psalms
it has never been attached to a body
trapped between fingers or ribs,
has never made an appearance--
i sometimes think I expend it
in movements as if it'd
be found around me in
backscatter, or slowly
shrugged off my shoulders
but
t h a t i s n o t t h e p o i n t
he worries about my happiness
as if it were precious but if it
were I wouldn't comb it through
his hair or whisper it in secrets
while he slept, brush it over
his skin or tuck it into his
pockets, he does not
u n d e r s t a n d
how much he
means.
I wrote this at the end of January.
And yeah, it's about you. And yeah, it's still true.
(c) Brooke Otto 2017