All is to the left forever
Just a sliver out of tune
A hair, a touch, a shift, a feather
Moments too late or too soon
The bridge the river mirrors backward
Leads into another town
Eastward, westward, homeward, upward
Some get lost and some go down
Always soon but never now
The river up the mountain runs
Downstream, upstream, fish and fowl
It floods the peak and drowns the suns
To the left, the shadows sing
The moon is shining in the night
Rising, waning, waxing, falling
In the gaps, the world is bright
The bird was raised in rosebushes
And nested there in thorns.
"Pricks and blood are how life is,"
It says when someone warns.
"I know these thorns; I know this pain.
I'm afraid of neither."
And someone says, "You should be safe,
Not be used to either."
It laughs and says, "I'm fine with this,
So do not for me fret"—
The bird sits in the rosebushes
And pricks itself to death.
By force my mother seized the town.
She and her lover share their rule
And take delight in being cruel
To me, for I will not stand down.
She acts as though I should not mourn;
'Twas only right to kill, she claims,
The one who caused her grief and pain.
But my grief brings me only scorn.
These righteous murderers do dare
To judge a man who only killed
A girl who of her own free will
Died for war and weather fair.
But they themselves are killers too
Of victims who cried out in fear.
There was no altar for them here,
Just this uncalled-for sudden coup.
This house by angry gods is cursed.
Fathers kill sons; wives strike men dead.
In turn our hands are all stained red
And each is as damned as the first.
Someday, I swear, this house will burn.
I'll light the fire, lock the door
And still alone, I will wait for
The curse to take me in its turn.
I blink, do not cry. Am I afraid?
I have long walked this earth; I have survived
and still survive. I appear; I appear to myself;
I appear as I am. Am I afraid? I have not died yet.
I keep moving; I stand still until I don't; I keep running.
Am I afraid? I am not alone and have not been alone.
I love; I am loved; I am in love. I know myself
and who I am. Am I afraid? I trust too easily;
I have never trusted like this; I expose myself,
I am myself to the world, I am a rod for the lightning,
I am to be destroyed for who I am. Am I afraid?
I cannot lie. I wear no mask; my voice is mine.
I give no false face or name.
Am I afraid?
Had I been built instead of born,
I would have been the child they meant.
I would have been too strong to crack,
Too complacent to escape.
If I'd been perfect, not my own,
Perhaps their love could have been mine.
But that's an old and tired line.
They'd not have lost me had they known
That I am cut in my own shape
And once cast out will not go back
As I am broken, scarred, and bent,
A failure worthy of their scorn.
you don't kill them, you boil them. death is
an inconvenience, a word we don't say. they are alive at our feet,
they are trapped at our whim,
and the water boils.
they are alive; they crawl where we allow until the pot is ready.
you don't ask about death. you don't understand yet
what isn't being said. you don't ask about death and no one tells you.
in the pot, they become food. no one is saying 'death'
and in the pot they stop moving. no one is saying 'death'
and at the table they are still. no one is thinking 'death'
and you take the word you do not think, and you dip it in butter
and you smile when you taste it.
I am of doorways, of locks and of doors
Lucky-unlucky, the last-minute save
Almost, just-barely, a little too late
Fading forgotten and left yet again
I am too slow; I fall apart again
Tired and grieving and staying up late
I promise, I know, there's nothing to save
I say my goodbyes; I close my own doors
A lifetime supply of rugs, I said,
to replace the ones pulled from under me.
I'm still ready for the next one, I say,
but I'm never ready. I don't ever expect the blow
and I don't pick myself back up fast enough.
I will be repairing myself forever for these rugs.
The world is yours now, I'm afraid;
It's time we pass our burdens on.
Build over this cruel world we made,
And do not mourn us when we're gone.
We cannot give you much advice;
We were once young and unprepared.
This world is still paying the price
Set by its gods, alone and scared.
I swear we did not intend
The horrors of this universe.
Please see it safely to its end
And do not make the next one worse.
One: They do not see him vanish
Nor do they find him when they look.
Oh, where is this lost youngest son?
His fate is written in this book.
Two: This happened years before now;
That is where causality breaks.
I swear that all I say is true
And what he tries to kill, he makes.
Three: Future and past are the same;
Each child dies in the wrong year.
Their lives are nothing; trust in me.
It's only the war you need fear.
Three: It has already begun.
Two: She lies to them; they agree.
One: Do as I say you must do.
We will let time its true course run.
"Were I afraid," it says, "of you,
I would not tell you so.
All words that leave my mouth are true,
And if I said, you'd know."
"Oh, little bird," the foxes say,
"You need not tell us that.
We eat your fear both night and day,
You mocking, whining brat."
"I'm not afraid," the bird says loud.
"I was but am no longer.
I've made a new life. I am proud.
I'm wiser and I'm stronger."
Be wary of the Fog And Gray;
Be careful of its touch.
It would steal you from the day;
It would hold you in its clutch
And you would become ashen-pale.
You would dress in rags of silk
And terrify the well and hale
And drink of spoiled milk.
The bird gets a restraining order
Builds around itself a border
Leaves all it has ever known
In order to not be alone
And here with friends it's safe at last
From the dangers of its past
But fear lasts long and digs in deep
It hides from foxes in its sleep
To the west I set my hatred
In the west I leave it whole
I bring no undue anger with me
I bring nothing but my soul
To the south I leave but ashes
In the south there lie the dead
I leave them for the gods to bury
I leave the ground there slick and red
To the east I set compassion
In the east I leave all care
I now turn my hand to killing
I now say my final prayer
To the north I set my path now
In the north I'll make my stand
I will fight though none stand by me
I will fall with sword in hand
A thousand poems about birds—
There's more that I can do with words
But I am tired, and it seems
That putting words around my dreams
Is harder than it is to start
By tearing out my fearful heart
Give it what it needs to fly;
Clip its feathers; watch it die
Go and seek your heart's desire
Climb the tree; no, higher, higher
Meet the god that's selling choices
Trading cast-off legs for voices
Say there's no price you would not pay
In this body you cannot stay
He will laugh, and take his price
Stay away: that's my advice
If I sing that I am frightened or I sing that I am not,
Though I've nothing to hide from but the words in which I'm caught
And there is no thread that holds a sword to come down on my neck,
Then still I am compelled to try to turn my head to check.
For what are swords but words you've said now sharpened and turned back?
And what is all this silence but the prelude to attack?
You cannot say that I have never caused a soul to cry
So how now should I stop their righteous claim to eye-for eye?
And what words shall I tell them as they're sharpening their knife?
Should I curse at my own failings or fall begging for my life?
Or should I say I'm sorry and hope that will be enough?
I pray that when they come to seek revenge that I am tough
And unafraid to witness all the grievances they bear
In order to accept I am the cause of their despair.
But perhaps I jump at shadows and perhaps I need not fear;
Perhaps I waste time waiting for some problem to appear—
Though I think by now I've earned the right to not let down my guard
For once you've been slain seven times, expecting peace is hard
And I am more afraid of losing friends than losing sleep.
This is a truth that long years and betrayals buried deep.
And see, I get distracted, see I'm always catching up;
I forget that in between the losses, half-full is my cup,
And I am not the bearer of the secrets of the earth,
And other people carry their own sorrow and their mirth.
There is so much I'm missing that I scramble to be taught
But there is no one alive who has more knowledge than does not.
I do not need to be the fastest, smartest, or the best.
I am allowed to know some things and disregard the rest.
Though it pains me to admit that I do not have infinite time,
Not knowing everything that someone else does is no crime.
So then, I'm to be myself alone and not some other man;
I'll try my hand at what I love and manage what I can.
But if I write a thousand thousand poems I'm afraid
That I'll always compare them to the ones that others made
And I will find mine lacking and will never truly learn
What makes a poet's fire in a poem's reader burn.
Tell me, am I worthy? Is my personhood secure?
Should I be more grateful or be doing something more?
I'm lucky I'm accepted and I'm lucky I'm alive,
Yet all it seems I have the strength to do is to survive.
Sing one more time I love you and sing once more that I'm good;
I know I ask assurance far more often than I should
And I trip over my meanings and I sometimes cause offense,
But I have ever talked to you and I have any sense:
I know I jump at nothing. I know I fear too much
And I know that I hold to my assumptions like a crutch.
But that is my own problem and it's mine to take apart
And mine to tear it harshly from my shameful fearful heart.