Gratitude



I am thankful for songs that we both know,
for the evening news and whimsicality of weather.
Utterly strange to one another,
at least we have a subject for conversation.

Silence, it rubs the wrong way,
like a too-tight collar.

Centuries ago, it was recommended
to politely converse
on neutral subjects.

Let's stick to those.

I am thankful for the songs that we both know,
the evening news, and whimsicality of weather.





Citizen Kane



We eat at a cold table
that stretches into eternity
between you and me.

Buried in dispensable things—
heavy fabrics, arduously woven by skillful hands,
chandeliers, satiated bowls of thick glass
(that will outlast us for successive eternities
longer even than the eternity
of our table)—
where are we headed?

You know and I both know.

This is why we're silent.




 
Friends



I feel you through the wall.
There you reside, divided from me by uncountable eternities
of ten steps.

Your room is dusty;
you never open the window.
Dishonesty nests on one shelf,
duplicity on another.
Dwarf Chatterbox inhabits
the drawer to your right.
He's helpful when you need to talk smoothly.
The air is thick with something—
I don’t quite know what;
I can’t put my finger on it.
And yet it is there,
prominent and intrusive.

Oh, these moments when you get silent
and still—
I dread them.
I prefer when you’re occupied,
and I can hear you through the wall.
Rudeness is better.
Peculiar friends we are,
you and I.
You like to call us that,
for it serves your purpose well.

There is such power in words
that she who listens to them
can be thrown into an abyss
of no escape.




 
Journey



You'd better toughen up, my dear.
The road is rocky and steep,
not a source of drinking water
in a hundred-mile radius.
Our camels are tired
and may not get over the pass.
We may have to leave our bags behind.

Think about what you’re bringing with you.
Remember:
Once the water runs out,
everyone will forget your name.
Only the ones you can trust like you trust yourself
are worth sharing with.
And I don't need to tell you this sort of distinction
shouldn't be given lightly.



 

***



He's racing again.

Dad, slow down.
Dad, stop.
Where are you rushing to?

Dad, slow down.
It happened once; it happened twice.

You well know
you're a walking miracle,
and every day of yours here
is a day torn out from nonexistence.

Our time is a borrowed time.

Slow down.

The next sharp turn
dissolves into white nothingness.




 
Suicidal Girl



Today’s the day
when buds of flowers
are shooting into the sky.
The sky’s melting. The air
is scented with spring.

Today’s the day.

A suicidal girl
came out to the street.

Today’s the day.

It’s so pretty out here,
and she doesn’t have worries,
and the air smells so different,
and the birds sing.

Today’s the day.

Today’s the perfect day,
for it is a perfect day.
She can go peacefully
as if the world owes her nothing.

A cloudy day is not the right day to do it.
A rainy day is not the right day to do it.
There’s too much to fight for when things are bad,
but a spring day like today . . . is the day.

Today’s the day.




 
Siege



It is not my intention
to exert myself to be polite.

You have inhabited my head
as if nothing had happened.
This is called a break-in;
make no mistake about it.
The mere fact that you're handsome
doesn't change a thing;
nor do your soft shirts,
nor that scent that you carry with you,
nor that tan skin of yours and your impressive physique—
this all means nothing to me.
NOTHING.

You're a plain squatter,
and I can't have any respect for a squatter,
even one with muscles so tight under his skin
that I could count each and every one of them.

Why don't you just move out
of my head?
I don't have space here.
Here, I’m growing a little plant; granted, it’s only a seedling,
a sprout, really,
but it’s growing every day,
and it needs space and sunlight.
And you steal all the sunlight—you catch it with your tan,
and the little plant doesn’t stand a chance;

and here’s a pillow for my cat-to-be,
and I can tell you right now:
you and a cat wouldn't fit here together,
for the cat that I want to get is ten feet long,

so just move out.

Take all these nice-smelling shirts of yours
and all your weights, which, as I can see, you must use a lot,
and all that magnetic presence of yours, and your bright smile,
and your wide arms,

and go.

Go!

Maybe leave some pictures.

Yes, this one, and that one,
and that one, too.

All of them.

And I want one shirt,
two shirts,

a wardrobe
full of your shirts,
and your weights,
and whatever else you have there.

And you don't need to stay dressed all the time, by the way;
your skin needs to breathe when you work out,
and—

 



Perfectionism


What I have learned about "perfection"
is that it only exists in a dictionary.

We strive to reach it. We never do.

Commas in just the right places,
polished glasses,
spotless silverware,
ironed shirts,
fresh sheets,
a perfectly behaved child,
the perfect manicure,
the perfect sentence.

The war with dust finally won: not a speck

for a split second

and not a split second longer.

I’ve missed the summer
and my dad’s birthday—again.

Nobody toasts with my perfect glasses . . .

. . . commas in all the wrong places, unpolished glasses, chipped nails;
guests are raising their eyebrows.

We cheer for my dad’s birthday cake over a card with an imperfect note scribbled on it,
and we comment on a butterfly we saw today.

The summer’s at its fullest,
and yes, it is settled:

I'll die unprepared.





To a Politician


Be vigilant, be chary,
for you never know what may befall you.

Some diseases mysteriously hit at the right time
for the majority to become the minority.
Some events are to be forever silenced.

You were aware of the danger.

Had you known the outcome of all this,
would it have made any difference?

We both know the answer. For, thankfully,
there will always be those
fighting and dying for the People.




 
The 34


When the time came
to cast a vote—

I did it for silver coins.
I did it because I knew he'd do it, and he'd do it,
and he, and he, too.
I did it because I believed I would belong to the majority.
Where the majority is, public sentiment will follow,
carefully guided by our own skillful hands.

Birds and seeds, and a song of a little girl
can all cross borders.
I—I live within the structures of my society.
They're rigid and they bite.

Learning the ropes took me quite a while.
I vaguely recall
I used to be innocent and curious,
and I, too, used to sing.

I can furnish explanations.
After all, I could be a believer
in a different cause;
and can’t everything be justified
one way or another?

Somehow, though,
when at the end of the day
I go for a walk,
I can see that everyone
walks in the opposite direction.

And I can hear the calling:
turn your flags upside down
to greet your elected officials.





At Play


I'll take the azure,
the breeze, your smile,

the red, the triangle, the whale,
that weird pen that you can't write anything with,
the purring of a cat.

I'll throw them all in a salt shaker,
giving an extra push to the whale,
add a few grains of rice just in case,

shake it all well—

or not—

and pull out a finished poem.

It’s all impressions,
a fleeting thought
caught on the run by the sleeve,
never to be seen again.