Yes.
That calm face
staring into a crack
is mine.
Yes.
A moment ago in the corridor
I passed a creature
walking in its own parallel world.
Yes.
Now I open my temple
and invite you inside,
into the kingdom of the amygdala,
where fear meets
the lift of faith.
Several voices move here,
each in its own way.
Wait.
Take my hand.
The scent of my grandmother’s pierogi
is still on my palate,
though she has been gone for years.
I remember a white little jacket,
brand new.
After a rainy May
I wore it
to weave wreaths from dandelions.
I remember the stains,
the scent of broken stems
with white sap.
Maybe Philip Glass
would understand
this pandemonium
of happiness and despair
in the second act of Orphée.
Do you feel the sadness
of digging a small grave
for a cat hit by a car?
Yes.
I was a child
and I still am inside.
Outside
I give stability.
Inside
I long for it.
I entered the in-between worlds
and I am surprised
by my own speech.
I search
for a pattern
of understanding.
I want to know
before I have to
begin again.