There’s
a gift to give, a sort of fever, pulled from a myriad;
of
what, of seafaring poets, novelists, even psychics. I’m
found
mourning, filled with glee, a mixture of tornados. I
read
a poem, an Asian dove, to question identity: Who am
I;
for what reason; streaming budlike? We rapture gravely:
to
heal a friend, to page a psych, to crumble for mothers.
I
asked a father, where was time, to suffocate loins? We
felt
absurd, to question Camus, to scuff a chin’s gravel.
She
wrote with pain; he wrote with swords; where both
caught
a whale. I pulled,—a tail for tons, to carry silence.
A
woman watches, fraught with defaults, to anchor for
mystics.
Others spasm,—through a daily thesis, afraid to
cough.
Is that mother, scribing our mirror, where father
prints
her soul? I felt a welt, to rub for alcohol, flitting for
flailing
a stranger’s mirror. We chime in grey, with much
disdain,
to treasure an outcome. Years induce trauma: a
terrified
son, a melancholic daughter, a mother gripping
carpet.
I’m three cigars shy, one month late, reading
through
our work. Is that fair, to claim for her, involved
in
her? I drank her eyes, to feel for shape, to morph
underground.
So far a bleeding culture filtered through
a
few voices. Oh for music, to knit for time, musing an
old dream. What to
give, a silent grunt, a river of woes.
