Already I mourn

those lost minutes of day

and their promise of more.

Sun, full and free,

lights their wings

like fire during this manic

pursuit of procreation,

the orgy whirling

around every bush.

Nature and instinct, joint masters

of this ceremony announce,

Now is the time! Now!

Make merry, make life!

A command to spin and dance

before finding the river,

giddy with flight, zooming,

weaving, bobbing upstream

to find the spot that beckons,

Here! I am ready for life! Here!

inspiring the plunge underwater.

Sudden cold electrifies

passion’s intoxication,

eggs release onto rocks,

ready to grow and become part

of this savage cycle.

Purpose fulfilled, the caddis burst

back into summer air, wild

with celebration.

In letting go

I have not fallen;

I have emptied my arms for flight

I set an empty cup

outside all day to find out

how sunshine tastes

Laughter fled our young mouths

before decency could intervene,

taking us on a careless detour

around the corner of cruelty.

 

Someone tossed a coarse comment

–it might have even been me–

about how hairy, how gross.

 

An outsider,

someone we never wanted to become

offered respite to our collective boredom.

 

Bolstered by backslaps

we competed for the crudest line

inspired by his ill-fitting shorts.

 

Entertained at last,

we snickered that wicked brand of delight

only earned at another’s expense.

 

Absorbed in the spectacle, I hardly felt

the tap on my shoulder.

I turned, looking into a woman’s pained face.

 

Her words, That’s my son,

still impale me

with their fierce declaration

of a truth I wish was not true.

The angry ones challenge me,

the crossed arms and narrow eyes

committed to their own silent rebellions.

 

The hand-wringers endear themselves to me,

the ones with too much time to tangle themselves

inside their own neuroses.

 

The desperate ones touch me,

the wet eyes and shaking shoulders

hungry for help.

 

The victims ignite me,

the ones who’ve forgotten about kindness

and only recognize cruelty.

 

But the empties, the empties defeat me,

the thick shields and vacant stares

who have energy for nothing, not even giving up.

I stepped right up
to the man in the top hat,
bought his slick pitch
about circus life,
entered the tent
eager to begin my training.

The first day we juggled,
tossing and catching,
rings, swords, fire,
until I joined the rhythm
of three things at once,
the trap of perpetual motion.

The next day was tightropes,
first teetering on planks
then moving onto wires,
one foot in front of the other,
eyes fixed straight ahead,
unable to see anything else.

Day three brought the magician
with wand and rabbit,
revealing reason behind illusion,
explanations for mystery,
and I dropped my bag of tricks,
fleeing before I learned too much.

Butterfly infuses

hanging sheets with dreams

of flying

 

Wind whispers

to pillowcases the stories

I will live before dawn

The less I write

the farther I stray

from wonder,

lost in the desert

of apathy, thirsty

for inspiration.

 

The more I wander

through the dust,

parched, my voice

shrivels, unable to cry

for help, beg

for mercy