they said there was going to be rain, but there's the moon, as bright as night can get, fractal diamonds through my spotty glasses, like a firework measuring out the weeks that turn into a month, caught in an endless repetition and a graceful and furious finale. and the sky is spotting, clouds that gather like a ring of birds around the same moon.
every other fourth of july has been an endless walk, a long drive, and too much sweat running down the back, not enough water, and too many places to stop and wait, and stop and wait. it's always longer for children, because they have less specific things they're waiting for, and it's all much more urgent, but the adults never understand. but this one felt different, the rains came and cleared the area, and the one drunk hillbilly chanting america looked like he was doing it with irony.
there are independent heartbreaks all over the world tonight, countries with new leaders they didn't elect, or are not sure of yet, and it all seems so fragile and balancing on a beam that can't hold much weight or waiting much longer. and i'm preoccupied, talking with my daughter about the quality of the sparkly fireworks, and agreeing about which ones we like best, in between jokes about how to prepare unicorn meat.
i'm sorry i ate chicken, but it was all i could do, i can't eat shrimp, not twice in a month, certainly not twice in a week, not with what's up ahead. and oshun's water turned into a river again, and covered me like i was about to be born. but i'm already born, this is just a repetition.
but if i had a wish for this up ahead, i would want to ask her questions; is this slow and easy romance, the kind that comes without strings or urgencies, or their own particular knots, a sign of slowing down, or growing up, or is it just a nice place to rest before another epic stanza in my own epic poem starts up again? and do i have to wonder about copper witches every time i get closer to the ocean again? and if i'm less curious about the bodies of strangers, does that mean i'm satisfied or just getting old, or just growing up, or is it because i've learned some things, and less concerned with the particulars of rib cages and more interested in the source of the thing that moves the finger over the body in the dark or in the light?
these stories here are complete. some will continue, and some will not continue, and some will come back, and some will decide to stay where they are, but they're complete, and i have a handful of threads to take with me to the ocean. i might lose some nights wondering which ones are older than me, which ones are broken even though i can't put them away, and which ones are always shiny and new, but i'm looking at my hands, and getting used to the new weight of bulk in my shoulders, and am entirely trained for a new adventure, and something unexpected and obvious is about to pull me into the undertow of something entirely new. i'm homesick for it, the kind of homesickness that only gets cured with a decision to wander, in my own bones, with my own blood beating in my ears like the sound of a river or an ocean, or the water from the moon.
every other fourth of july has been an endless walk, a long drive, and too much sweat running down the back, not enough water, and too many places to stop and wait, and stop and wait. it's always longer for children, because they have less specific things they're waiting for, and it's all much more urgent, but the adults never understand. but this one felt different, the rains came and cleared the area, and the one drunk hillbilly chanting america looked like he was doing it with irony.
there are independent heartbreaks all over the world tonight, countries with new leaders they didn't elect, or are not sure of yet, and it all seems so fragile and balancing on a beam that can't hold much weight or waiting much longer. and i'm preoccupied, talking with my daughter about the quality of the sparkly fireworks, and agreeing about which ones we like best, in between jokes about how to prepare unicorn meat.
i'm sorry i ate chicken, but it was all i could do, i can't eat shrimp, not twice in a month, certainly not twice in a week, not with what's up ahead. and oshun's water turned into a river again, and covered me like i was about to be born. but i'm already born, this is just a repetition.
but if i had a wish for this up ahead, i would want to ask her questions; is this slow and easy romance, the kind that comes without strings or urgencies, or their own particular knots, a sign of slowing down, or growing up, or is it just a nice place to rest before another epic stanza in my own epic poem starts up again? and do i have to wonder about copper witches every time i get closer to the ocean again? and if i'm less curious about the bodies of strangers, does that mean i'm satisfied or just getting old, or just growing up, or is it because i've learned some things, and less concerned with the particulars of rib cages and more interested in the source of the thing that moves the finger over the body in the dark or in the light?
these stories here are complete. some will continue, and some will not continue, and some will come back, and some will decide to stay where they are, but they're complete, and i have a handful of threads to take with me to the ocean. i might lose some nights wondering which ones are older than me, which ones are broken even though i can't put them away, and which ones are always shiny and new, but i'm looking at my hands, and getting used to the new weight of bulk in my shoulders, and am entirely trained for a new adventure, and something unexpected and obvious is about to pull me into the undertow of something entirely new. i'm homesick for it, the kind of homesickness that only gets cured with a decision to wander, in my own bones, with my own blood beating in my ears like the sound of a river or an ocean, or the water from the moon.
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