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in the stories there is a beast, a thing without a face or form
a collection of fur fangs & dank fear. not the metaphor but the thing itself stories vary but in each of them the beast lives in a cave or the cellar of an abandoned house afraid that the light will strike it dead variation aside there is always a girl but how she meets the beast why she loves it subject to interpretation. don't guess unless you've been loved so ridiculously yourself always the girl enters the house cellar cave or forest daily always she calls to the beast "always, always" with her red clarion her tender trumpet while it the beast entered called again collapses back red-eyed into its creche of smashed lightbulbs its tabernacle of bats which also whispers "always, always" with a cruel violin. now and again the beast reaches a toe a finger into the light then draws back into its catacomb of dark whispers its temple of night grapes. each day the girl calls. each day the girl calls. then one day she does not. she has given up or has died. maybe not the story you expected but this is a truth too. say the beast waits five days or ten before the absence of the girl's voice draws it out terrified but in love the more. can you imagine which was greater? how beautiful finally the clean taste of sunlight or how heartbreaking the bone-snap of loss. wake up. so you've been slugged
low harsh and unfairly so the entire world looks like tinder and your head vibrates. rest here. let the unkind words the hammer-blow judgment fall away. it seems like the earth cannot hold it all, I know, and the stars are too far away to touch. so it goes. even the trees who once held you aloft like old acrobats cannot even whisper. some things weigh this much. there are places where birds seem not to exist. do not take the usual paths: to lie down before it is to crush your soul like a wad of tinfoil to stand up before it is to become someone's self-fulfilling prophecy there is a wind in the pines somewhere a brook remembers your name. listen to these voices until you recall on what shelf you left the portrait of someone who truly loved you. take down that face. hold it before you. spread it like putty until it fits the horizon. I have learned to apologize in five ways.
First, to say "I'm sorry I hurt you," and move on. taillights. this is not an apology it is an excuse to exit stage left. it is what absentee fathers say to women as theirs shadows back out of doorways. Ganesh said to me: I will sit on your chest tonight and squeeze and squeeze. Second, to say "I am sorry I met you sorry I fell in love with you sorry I went bowling with you. . ." this is not an apology. it is regret. a dash of anger like bad salt. a slander of the nudity of giving, the bottomless heart which gardens this earth. Ganesh said: since you do not value your hands, let me take them back. Third, to say, "I am sorry my way of being acting speaking standing hurts you." this is not an apology. it is the thief disguising theft by insinuating against the robbed. it is forgetting how electricity flows. and Ganesh: I will plant you squarely in the way of everything. Fourth, you will say, "I am sorry--But. . ." this is not an apology. it is a sucker punch. a handshake of needles. a kiss that draws blood. Ganesh whispers to you: say--if like trading so much, I have something better to trade with you. Fifth, apologize. the silence that dropped from three words to crush my heart into a sweet, sweet wine. See? Ganesh said, it is not so bad, riding on the back of this mouse. from here, you can get to where you are really going. from here, you can go home. this starry sky. everything I have wanted to know
about love. it's true, friend. we have made our homes on those little lights out there. it is a sea that we must cross. the owl, guardian of that door his feathers make less sound than an eyelash dropping he must not be heard, but felt. the soul is weighed against that countermeasure. I have lost so many of you on that voyage. my words were not always good. my throat was not my true throat. I stumbled in and out of the shape of a bear. I knew hunger and loss and stood on two legs. as if I were a man. as if. but sometimes when the moon disappears behind silent velvet, I sing you lullabies. all of you. I touch your faces with new pens. I see you from the other side of things. this mercy. an escaped horse. the keyhole at my navel. it is not enough to live and say I could not love everything. if I was the earth I would hold you. if the sea, I would kiss you. even suffering, all of you. the starfish are my hands take them. I forgive your lack of thumbs. I forgive you the stars that you say aren't there. I have seen them all. I am on my knees, hands out, to catch them. don't lie to me about time. it does not exist. an owl told me so. |
Poetry LogPoems are posted here when I'm ready to share them. I often don't title my poems. The date you see above the poem may be the date it was posted here and not necessarily the date it was created. To see more, click on the Archives below. Archives
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