You hold echoes of a shift
against the swell
of midnight summer rain—
within the roar of the planes
on cold faded glass
the stuffy air at the airport
There was no way around it
that I could see—
the world still kept its spinning
You lock your stare here
and how I wish
I was packed up too,
snug heartbeats in your leather briefcase.
When was the last time
I felt a raving hunger for life?
When had I but an eternity in moments,
on the edge of something vastly different?
How was it me and not you
who staked her soul high
on rolling hills of green,
took long draughts to savour, to condense
the weight of the world into one precious drink,
cup the shortest days in her palm and release them,
for her thoughts to balloon into the wild?
The delectable now--
ripe as berries for plucking in winter,
and all things, like music
So I suppose my question to you
is not concerned with
the wad of newly-minted green in your pocket,
nor the fleet of shiny cars, but
your pure self, simply being.
It’s prodding the heart,
a tiny critter fluttering with wings, wondering:
when will you ever get a second chance at this--
all this storm
and inexplicable happiness--
or will you
go hunting for things,
whirling at mere traces
of power in your name--
or will you turn around
only to find a life
or a lie,
staring back wide-eyed
in endless shame?
It was a graveyard and overcast sky
and I sat with book and accordian in hand,
hearing the world with its screams
swallow up around me.
The people whom I had loved and lost,
Papa with his silver eyes
Mama her sharp tongue and tough love
Rudy whose hair the colour of lemons
and questioned why, the living and dead,
worlds apart, yet both did not have a choice.
I stood and screamed so that everything shook
the burning rubble and ash and dust
willing my words to bring it all back
but it did not come, and my breath rose in gasps.
Death had looked me in the eye and said,
“It’s not time yet.”
I would shut my eyes to the world
only decades later.
I will understand that there was hate and pain
there was sadness
but even more so, there was love and joy.
I will know that the people I loved had reason
to kiss goodbye
whether it was their own hurt
or saw it as a necessity,
but they were never truly gone from me
always somewhere nearby,
in the thick and thin
frail and worn
I would learn
to forgive Death that day.
I will understand that
and I will be hurt,
but I will be okay.
Not all deaths are sad.
Some, meant to ease their own pain,
Are called freedom.
Meant to ease the pain of others,
Are called love.