I need to know.
I’m ready to know.
And it came from inside me,
a voice that said,
“It’s true, Brittany.”
It was like my own voice almost,
Like I was testifying to myself
from some other dimension where clarity exists…
I heard this voice and then I knew,
In my very own dimension…
that it was true,
And that I would never again exist without it.
I was saved by a question: is it true?
I think we are all saved by our questions.
I’m sorry I didn’t come.
like our souls were on a scavenger hunt
that our bodies didn’t know about
And then one day
I met you,
And I felt a feeling wash over me
like:
Ahhh, I found you.
And you know because they feel like your first home.
I’m sorry I didn’t come
so we could feel this about each other.
I don’t know where you are
Sitting somewhere with a disoriented soul
Feeling like you missed an appointment you didn’t really have.
No datebook said I would come,
None but our souls that were supposed to meet at this time
in this place
We were supposed to meet
A slice of home
A day of what we needed.
I can see you waiting
Alone and wondering,
Confused,
Because you don’t even know that someone left you
But you showed up
And I didn’t.
So I’m sorry I didn’t come.
When you look up
do you see nature
or grace?
Yes.
You, up in eternity already
Answer us.
Smoking nebulous in the last corner of the universe:
Why are you silent?
Asleep, like you can’t hear me.
Ignoring me utterly…
I know you can.
Splitting cells making man: answer.
Who told you to stop working?
And who told you to start?
You from the ocean,
Why do you swim silently?
Is there no answer at all?
Or is the answer just the way we feel about silence?
Last bleeding dinosaur, after it happened to all the others:
You must have figured something?!
Tree: what is up there anyway?
Where do you think you’re growing?
Carnivore: what did you take from him?
Storm: what do you lack in your movement?
Canyons: You’ve been moved by it…
Does it take 1 million years to know?
[Words should come less often]
The actors are accessories to the story
Men are seasonal, but life is so sweet.
Your little scrape,
Your foot sticking up in the air,
Your mother chasing the butterflies,
It’s all so sweet.
And your little tambourine,
Your reservations about the baby are so sweet.
Playfest, then now:
Pass out where you stand,
23 inches tall.
You, running, tormenting the neighborhood with grasshoppers…
Yes, you.
Where is it all going?
I can’t tell, neither can they
(Because they are still deciding)
Is there someone behind you?
Are you blocking the light?
This is where we go, I’m sure.
To rocks and dirt,
To our Father,
and the fairytales…
To kiss the cheeks of our mothers.
To the tree of life.
Is it as we remembered?
Perhaps, only better.
A stranger with no legs at the sidewalk,
What a happy fourth of July
he wished us as we passed.
We’re going shopping, see,
But he was so very real,
And some kind of sincere.
A kind smile,
Some kind of smile,
He made me believe he was happy to see me,
Only me,
And I was happy to see him too.
My beautiful mom walked right up to him,
like she had an appointment.
And tried to return his favor,
Tried to make his day easier.
A couple dollars maybe,
”How’d you lose your legs?”
She asked as a friend.
”Diabetes.”
Then she reached into her bag and got something else.
A sticker,
"HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY,” it said.
And she gave it to him, smiling wide.
I’ve never felt more befriended by a stranger.
So close, it was hard to walk away.
But my dear mother,
She’s the one who did something.
I stole his apple slices.
He brought me lotion when I would wake up paralyzed by my imaginary dry skin. Hands clenched in fists, all appendages up in the air like a turtle who got stuck on its back.
"Who said we could?
Dunn Edwards! (excitedly)
Who said we couldn't?
Mom. (said like a depressed horn)
And we continue to throw the football.
I just jumped through fifty poems and caught the ground.
I felt each one come through me
and leave again in a jolt.
There was no way I could catch them as they went,
backward and up,
flying away from me at the speed of gravity.
What is the terminal velocity of poem?
How fast can they fall?
Gotta catch them all,
Gotta catch them all.
