Nine years, five years, twenty,

more/less… I can point to some mark

on my body or better, recall how

a particular phrase ruined/saved me.

But tonight is a lonely bucket,

with great angst staring at the floor

while a supermoon blazes

for someone else.

It’s pink. I’m blue.

A poet once asked, “How are you?”

I feel compelled to answer.

Tomorrow’s wishes

lie at the bottom of a fountain

that’s not been turned on

so nobody pays attention.

The bird atop is frozen, mid-squawk,

awaiting a liftoff that will never come.

Embers keep the feet shuffling

when the air is still, quiet

and the pain is tolerable,

the fatigue growing near.

Counting steps or minutes is a waste

as is describing fire as it goes out.

I found where most of the dust motes 

from childhood daydreaming went: 

they’re in my chest, floating, gaining 

traction against all odds, 

making the bleak landscape seem 

touched with enough magic 

to make long drives and small tasks 

bearable or at least not fruitless.

I didn’t think songs about home 

would hurt. I thought time 

would erase the lashings, 

the panic, the ensuing numbness… 

I was hoping to laugh at my scars 

like they did on the Orca in “Jaws.” 

I didn’t know I would struggle to 

overcome my own tendencies. 

I knew I was small. I know I will 

laugh and be sad and try 

until I don’t have to. I didn’t know 

home was a mythical place 

near the sternum.

push the clouds into the pond

and let flowers fall

or rise with the moonlight

let crickets rejoice

(they will go on regardless)