A way-back poem for the first of May, to mark the end of National Poetry Month, and the beginning of the next stage in this strange journey we’re on.
How can one seduce happiness then make it love you enough to stick around?
knots in the wood flaws in the pattern of the oriental carpet a brown withered leaf on an otherwise healthy plant this is how we know that things are real a speck of dust on the TV screen a missing scale on an ornamental Koi a scratch on a smooth surface scuff marks and worn patches on an old guitar this is how we know that things have lived sometimes I understand the revolutionary’s disdain for perfect fingernails, overly coiffed hair, and hands without callouses This is how we know that we have lived: bruises, cuts, and scars on all our parts hearts included
into a fist
wrapped around my spine
as if intending
to pull it out
through the flesh of my back
If only thoughts mattered
I could live a thousand lifetimes
I would be a mountain
pocked, scarred, eroded
wearing my damage like a testimony
to having lived
watching oceans grow and shrink;
I would be a phoenix
all my sins turned to ashes
pulling myself, choking, back into the world
again and again;
I would be a river
carving out the earth
wearing down centuries
roaring torrent or sluggish as a snail;
still I would move, and move.
Without this fragile shell,
bound by bones & blood & sinew
I could converse with dark nebulae
wander the tracks of galaxies
discover what really happens
when you fall into a black hole;
But without these volatile chemicals
flowing through temperamental veins
tickling twitching, fragile nerves,
would I still feel delight at the birth of a star?
anticipation approaching the speed of light?
sorrow at the heat death of the universe?
Without these mundane aches and pains,
the constant nod and wink of death’s eventual shadow
would happiness taste as sweet?
Would we trade these perpetual growing pains
for an eternity without joy?