In the long shadow of lists
You have my permission
to remind me
to be brave,
to hold me
accountable
to my dreams
that go missing
in the long shadow
of lists.
Silent and perfect
A baby robin clutches
the side of his nest
but thinks better
of leaping.
His mother berates him
a constant squawk
from her stage on the big cedar bough.
I peek in
he has fallen
asleep, impervious to her call
for obedience.
Three days in a row of this
spectacle of nerves
and the next day
she didn’t return.
At dusk
that grey mute hour
he climbed onto the ledge
of his woven brambled home
and flew
silent and perfect
into the cedar tree.
She will come back for him,
I thought.
The next morning I was getting firewood
from under the house
and there he lay
as though he was sleeping again
silent and perfect
but horribly
still,
his glossy black eyes
wet with fear.
I felt angry at his mother
for not understanding
he just needed more time
than his brothers,
for not coming back
though he must have waited all night
on the cedar bough
where her last words to him
were of disappointment.
And I felt angry
at the beast
who startled him
bullied him to the ground
and didn’t even take a bite
to make it feel orderly
to assure us that nature isn’t senseless
that only we push the weaker ones
for fun.
But mostly I was angry
at myself:
I was the one who saw him fly
for the first time
and I didn’t clap
or say a word.
He never knew
how proud
I was.
Hunting for gratitude
Spend your days hunting
for gratitude.
You will bow
to the big ones at first:
health
love
roof over your head.
Then one day
your world will splice
open into a thousand tiny experiences
that used to be knit together
into the density of life.
You taste them
holding each moment like a bird
in the cup of your palms
shocked
at how much joy
was out there
waiting.
Indian traffic jam
The knot of traffic pushes
against the heat and gets nowhere:
mopeds, camels, rickshaws
garlands adorn the fenders for luck.
The honking is deafening
a comical conversation
of gods painted on the trucks,
bumpers for mouths,
making it look as if they are laughing
at the mayhem,
wondering why more of us
don’t just walk.
Fatigue
Fatigue arrives
like a rolling pin
pressing the air out
of my conversation.
I am limp,
too tired to pee.
My eyebrows do their best
to hoist my eyelids open
but they burn
begging to collapse.
There is a swollenness
to this exhaustion
as if even my blood
is groggy.
The night is short
and morning is still underground
when he wakes,
hot sweet breath
in my face.
He wants to play
but I am not his mother:
please won’t someone explain to him
I have become cement.
He can’t crawl
but he rolls and pushes his way
down to my hands
which he takes in his own
and begins a private
quiet game.
I wake up and see
that a thick long hour has passed.
He is still holding
my hands, smiling
and I could weep
at his kindness.
