i.
was it underneath those algae covered rocks,
whispering, green creatures that delighted in
making a naked foot recoil in a moment of panic,
all the world collapsing into dust, as slime made contact?
was it beneath those stones, where a nickel lay,
a burning sun next to Lincoln's rusted beard, unseen
to our child eyes, looking for what was brightest
amongst a forest of grime and stone?
we dove in with such a fervor, a keening
to collect what was tossed by grandfather’s hands.
it was beneath those rocks that we learned what it was
to search for lost, or never found in the first place, things.
when the lake pressed against our chests, daring us to remain
below the surface, while our lungs begged us for just one
breath of air that was lingering five feet above our bodies
taunting and calling to us in our very nervous system,
we pressed on, fingers scraping desperately for a shiny token
until the void in our lungs flung us back into the bright and sharp world of oxygen.
ii.
i had a blue box with a galloping horse
cubed by an inspired painter. in it was
a gold brooch with stones like dollar bills
all shining and red once i dug it
out of the ground, and when i washed it
there was a chip in metallic paint on plastic
gems. in the box there was an arrowhead that told stories
or committed murders, with a chiseled point. they say of good
sculpting that you can see the artists hands in the piece.
under the horse's calico eye was a lost bead
that might have been a choice pick in a kindergarten class.
iii.
the dust under your bed doesn't make a scene
unless you stir it with a probing broom, little stalks of fingers brushing,
crowded together so that what's found is stolen by some next door bristle.
the vacuum cleaner will only reach so far and leave
an unthinkable spot that can't help but be thought of because
it's the only one left.
iv.
you will miss, the first one thousand times you try
to lasso a horse or a tilting bull that seems to be
yearning to scratch an itch by backflipping. or maybe you will
catch a firefly (you probably will never get that bucking animal,
so aim smaller) just once and look into a phosphorescent
backside, glowing like one million lamps under a full moon
on the Chinatown streets. fireflies keep well (poorly)
in jars with tinfoil hats that are poked with holes to let in the air
or let in the drowning raindrops when you leave the insect,
enshrouded by glass, on a checker-clothed table in your back yard.
fireflies don't have lungs because insects don't, but
you don't know this. so you will wonder if it felt
what you did when your itching fingers scraped rocks,
so green they were almost alive, until you escaped a dimmer
and quieter world and breathed again.
Apr 29, 2011
Apr 29, 2011 at 4:17 PM UTC
i.
was it underneath those algae covered rocks,
whispering, green creatures that delighted in
making a naked foot recoil in a moment of panic,
all the world collapsing into dust, as slime made contact?
was it beneath those stones, where a nickel lay,
a burning sun next to Lincoln's rusted beard, unseen
to our child eyes, looking for what was brightest
amongst a forest of grime and stone?
we dove in with such a fervor, a keening
to collect what was tossed by grandfather’s hands.
it was beneath those rocks that we learned what it was
to search for lost, or never found in the first place, things.
when the lake pressed against our chests, daring us to remain
below the surface, while our lungs begged us for just one
breath of air that was lingering five feet above our bodies
taunting and calling to us in our very nervous system,
we pressed on, fingers scraping desperately for a shiny token
until the void in our lungs flung us back into the bright and sharp world of oxygen.
ii.
i had a blue box with a galloping horse
cubed by an inspired painter. in it was
a gold brooch with stones like dollar bills
all shining and red once i dug it
out of the ground, and when i washed it
there was a chip in metallic paint on plastic
gems. in the box there was an arrowhead that told stories
or committed murders, with a chiseled point. they say of good
sculpting that you can see the artists hands in the piece.
under the horse's calico eye was a lost bead
that might have been a choice pick in a kindergarten class.
iii.
the dust under your bed doesn't make a scene
unless you stir it with a probing broom, little stalks of fingers brushing,
crowded together so that what's found is stolen by some next door bristle.
the vacuum cleaner will only reach so far and leave
an unthinkable spot that can't help but be thought of because
it's the only one left.
iv.
you will miss, the first one thousand times you try
to lasso a horse or a tilting bull that seems to be
yearning to scratch an itch by backflipping. or maybe you will
catch a firefly (you probably will never get that bucking animal,
so aim smaller) just once and look into a phosphorescent
backside, glowing like one million lamps under a full moon
on the Chinatown streets. fireflies keep well (poorly)
in jars with tinfoil hats that are poked with holes to let in the air
or let in the drowning raindrops when you leave the insect,
enshrouded by glass, on a checker-clothed table in your back yard.
fireflies don't have lungs because insects don't, but
you don't know this. so you will wonder if it felt
what you did when your itching fingers scraped rocks,
so green they were almost alive, until you escaped a dimmer
and quieter world and breathed again.