Should I Reveal Specifics?
& Any Small Mercy &
S-Curve
Should I Reveal Specifics?
How do I tell my stories
when they come to me
as dusty symbols on a wall,
fading cartouche, hidden from the sun?
I was the darkly bright bird who slept
with head tucked under wing,
the bird who could not admit
that she would sometimes look,
open one eye, reveal her face,
quickly retreat under feathers
pretend to not turn cold
by what she saw.
I was one of the shackled ones
who never tried hard enough
to loosen the bindings - waited
for someone who had the key.
Should I reveal specifics,
give you reasons to remember
the texture of crystalline powder,
the burn of good scotch whiskey,
the eye colors of who was in the rooms,
what the rush was like
or the trip where cattails were sabers
and I walked naked without armor?
Should I write of the different scents
of sour sweats and patchouli incense,
when the body stifled the words,
I just need to be held?
How much sharing is enough,
which secrets held under the wing
of that dark bird need to be shaken out
at daylight, prompted to fly straight?
Readers, your quiet smile confirms
you know all the parts I’ve left out.
Any Small Mercy
The waiting seems so heavy, outside myself
like summer heat when a closed door opens
or song lyrics heard faintly from a distance.
I expect answers to what I already know
anticipate the words, the explanations
that fill the void with protective amulets,
offer reprieve and the possibility
of some measure of who I used to be.
I imagine the worst,
anything less will be a relief,
a sigh that waits to refresh the air.
A kindness behind a stranger’s smile;
my eyes must look like beggars.
I will take any small mercy
and build a future with it.
S-curve
There was the Schwangunk Mountain
It might have been October.
and there was me, my sleeping bag,
some wine, some matches, some tinder.
At the end of dusk I walked
a wide enough path with an S-curve,
the bulk of the mountain cozying up
to the side of the trace before it fell away.
I stopped, startled. She was solid
huge, infinite, predatory, dangerous
the color of almost ripe persimmons.
We stared at each other.
The ocean in me pulled towards her.
every liquid atom that coursed in my body
reached out, yearned to be reunited
with a lost sister who glowed, beckoned me,
called my tides home to the beginning,
into the saffron lushness of the disk.
Steps from the edge, so easy
one foot then the next.
I was a silhouette, a figure drawn in black
two dimensional against a Chinese Lantern
hung in the indigo cavern of night.
Suddenly fearful as if slapped awake,
I stopped moving forward, sat down
folded knees to chin, watched
as she got tired of waiting for me,
watched as she became pale,
ascended to her place among the stars
and I returned to mine below the firmament
on rocky ground with a sleeping bag, wine,
and a fire to remind me of the moon.