I know my life brings me perilously close to Death,
To the mother from whose dark womb we are bourne and returned.

Every day I dance with Mortality.
We waltz round the house.
I feel her fingers lock round my neck.
My fingers dig into her waist.
Our gazes lock,
And I peer into her eyes reflecting sweet grassy hills of surrender
And I say to her
... Not today.
She will retreat for a moment, but
Soon, in the dead of night, she will slap me awake
And I will wrestle her to the floorboards.
But by the time the sky begins to bleed mauve
She will have sublimated.

Her vapor follows me still.


Have you ever gone fishing with your dad?
Have you pierced the animal by its lip
And fought to drag in its body, thrashing wildly and gasping for air,
Eyes wide and wet?
It stares into you,
And it stares into me.

And my father, screaming at me!
My father! And his “scary eyes,”
I cried to my mother.
Shh, sweetie, soothed my mother,
His eyes are the same as yours and mine.

Years later
I know this to be false.
His eyes are glaciers threatening to crack.

But sometimes, only sometimes, my springtime permeates through to his eternal winter
And slowly, snow begins to melt
And slides down his cheek.

Oh, Father
Do not repeat what you have so desperately wished to forget!
Do not isolate me.
You cannot afford another winter
And neither can I.

My roots are reaching, but as to where, I do not know.
Stretching ever deeper, ever further
Grappling in the darkness, prying into soil
Searching for just a little sustenance
A little sustenance, to keep me going,
Just for now.

Chords strike in time with my own heatbeat
Spirit in body quivers like the strings of violins.

Let me soak in the pool of your one thousand resentments
Your hundred sorrows
And your only disappointment.

Come and let me cry tears of liberation
Like the red and white of the flag you hold so dear
Streaking down my face,
My eyes two stars that proclaim
Deliverance!

Do not tell me I am in danger,
I have long known this to be true.
It is only in the retrospect of lives past
That we we wish we had been different.
I swear I am not the past.

Crickets sing, a symphony of vivacity
Brightening the night to the count of 1,2,3.
Rapid, but never rushed,
Their joy caused my cheeks to flush.
Alive! They sang,
I am alive,
And oh, how glorious the night!
They needed not validation, nor hearing, nor sight.
Their songs rocked me to sleep
On my bed – the place for my consciousness to keep.
Night after night, they sing their ploy
And night after night, I partake in their joy.
And so I cannot call it sadness
When their music begins to slow.
The nights are cold,
Their internal metronome abates as cool wind blows.
Tonight, still, they will rock me to sleep
But I know in my heart they shall forever keep.

Shroud, halo, aura of smoke
Swirling round my disposition
I watch as an exhalation casts a shadow as determinate as my own.

My family –
My family –
Yes, we are a family.
But
When push comes to shove
The memories shroud like smoke
And I cannot see through.

My family:
Four isolated individuals
Thrashing in the ocean
Grasping each other in the hope of staying afloat
Is how it has always been.

If four corners make a square,
Is each corner defined as “segment of square”?
Or can the four points reach into a rectangle infinite
Stretching perpetually further from one another?

Outside of my window is an oak
In the autumn, this oak becomes a yellow dandelion tree erupting with splendor and where it was once meek and young with flat green leaves, now there is fire!
And every other tree its disciple.

Walking on leaf littered concrete
I step over hundreds of bodies.
Their irregular coloration seems to beg –
“I am not finished yet.”
I wince with every crunch underfoot.

Walking through darkness
Alone, again
And I return
I return to the place I always do
The place that keeps me when I sleep
But does not keep me safe –

Jugula nigra drops its fleshy fruit,
Encased, one nut –
Enough nutrients for several generations.
Ink stains my hands black
As I tear away the husk
Obliterate the shell
Desperately seeking that which is not rotten.
I didn’t find it.
Now, when I walk, I look straight ahead.

Seeking a solution for the void to fill the emptiness
Running outside,
Around, and around, and around
Until I retire to my wooden square
I pace nervously
I pace
I pace
With niether conviction nor righteousness.

Another leaf, unfinished with life,
Aborted by the tree.
I cannot see one more.

I suppose I had wanted to reconcile
These leaves with these branches
But I am powerless.
I am a ghost.

Perhaps these words will float away,
But likely, they will reverberate in my bones
For life.

Outside of my window is an oak
Its leaves have dropped.
The fire has been extinguished.
I close my eyes
And let one thousand poplars swirl me away.