Walking in the rain
always makes me want a re-do
a chance to delete everyone’s notions of me
and be that girl
who writes sardonic lists
for McSweeney’s
the born-agains are all over it
water can do that to you
erase all that dusty ache
grant a clean slate
everyone elbows for a path under the awnings
but I let my coat get soaked
thinking wry and clever things
repenting for the forgiveness
of being peppy
for so long.
Promise me
when we get old
you’ll still ask me
what I want to do
with my life
promise me
you won’t let me
get so busy
I stop leaving you funny notes
that I pretend
are written by our son
promise me
you’ll care for your body
with the tenderness you would
if it was mine
promise me
you’ll still leave me long voice mails
even if you one day learn
how to text
promise me
you’ll forgive this poem
it’s not like me to dig so hard
for refuge
from the hollow
of tomorrow
but last night I dreamed gravity was so tired
it forgot to hang on to us
and we floated away.
We are taut
with empowerment
a permission slip
to be true
and unbroken
the right
to be right
we have reclaimed
our past and future
we are French kissing
the present
we are strong
we are ready
now teach us
to forgive.
I don’t understand the itch
to get out from underneath
the ego
they speak of
emptiness
as though it is has a sweetness
all its own
but who will be there
to taste it
if you are nothing.
I forgive mine
its brashness
the way it clings to ideas
and budges
to the front of the line
I am grateful for its seat
giving me audience with life
and awed
that it doesn’t believe
in death.
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All the times I talked to you in a sing-song voice
a tinny kind of happy
while responding to emails
when I fell asleep
kneeling overtop of your little body
for who knows how long
except it was long enough
for my legs to go numb
the way I can’t seem to judge
the turn around the staircase
and knock your head
against the wall
when you wake up
I sometimes count the hours
until you will sleep
again
and I can’t seem to
get into
Lego.
It’s not really an apology
this catalog of blunders
nor a pitch for forgiveness
I just wanted you to know
little goose
that human beings are curious
that imperfect days
fit inside
a love so big
it feels like I swallowed
the sea.
If you don’t mind
I’d like to spend
some time
with your elbows.
Nubby carpet
on one side
and the other
soft sheath
over tassels of veins.
Is it possible
I’ve never kissed them?
Forgive me
I have grown indifferent
to the miracle
of ligaments
to the fancy trick
of bones
that hinge.
Isn’t it always the way
death nudges a friend
and suddenly I am hungry again
for every last crumb.
There are plenty of tender voices out there
give yourself a break
be gentle
forgive yourself
and I’m all for it
but there is also a time for rigor
the tightrope of effort
when you’ve gambled big
waking up groggy but getting down to it anyways
digging the spurs
into your own ribs
arouse your own authority
don’t let yourself get away
with an indifferent life
author your days
with some strictness
not just in the calibration of details
but as a river moves
as it must
from one stone
to the next.
I chase my muse
clumsy and exasperated
as though attempting to catch a cat.
My mood is too brittle for patience
so I set out the bait
the reliable sequence:
a walk
a coffee shop
anything by Amy Hempel.
I wait like a vise
but my mind lays limp
hollow rustle of white noise
like slippers shuffling
no colour
no hard edges
of words.
I admonish her
then promptly beg for forgiveness
for isn’t the magic of a muse
the same threat that it could disappear.
The day swallows the sun
but my fingers remain dormant
like the Queen’s Guard
all geared up and inconsequential.
I am falling asleep
when she nestles her idea
into my head
unflustered
gentle
as though she was waiting the whole day
for me to retreat
so she could drop off her gift
and slip away.
You assign no accountability
to your thoughts
as though their invisibility
excuses them,
lets them slip away
in the dark.
But what of the imprint of their stomping,
the ringing in your ears?
Can’t you see your furrowed brow
is one of them,
pinching you
from inside your skull.
Your body is not a shell
but a scribe,
a devoted secretary who records
your quiet scroll of inner chatter,
an opus of your thoughts.
So loyal,
your limbs read your library
of hopes and doubts
like a bestseller.
Your thoughts don’t melt,
they are etched
into the lining
of your being.
Forgive the bitter ones,
the livid
the suspicious
the uptight,
but don’t invite them back.
Fill your skin
with new words.
Write your body
a new ending,
a story
of joy.
The beginning
is always the same
crumpled
brittle
wondering
why I traded my bed
for this hard
floor.
Perhaps
if I just sleep
the others will marvel
at my stillness.
But I’m not bold enough
to fake it
so I stand up
my legs are starchy
stubborn
wrists wobble
I jump forward
gravity
chuckles.
Then it happens
suddenly
the clunkiness
is swallowed
by my breath
my unyielding joints
forgive
I am warm
long
elastic
light.
Class is over
I am melted
asleep on the floor
such a perfect
bed.
