I’ve always thought these should’ve been answered for me
Until I confessed I hadn’t said anything
And then left the sanctuary
To go find another.
—
There are nights I can speak all the words I need to say,
And there are nights I’ve forgotten.
Nights I shoo away.
Sit-in-the-chair-and-stare-at-the-wall-beyond-the-desk nights.
—
These whispers have plucked leaves from trees.
They’ve grown into hands that baked bread and fruit into something tempting,
Steadied feathered ballerinas bent in some grand plié,
And held a fist to the face of principalities shouting, “What’s hidden must be seen!”
—
Several times I’ve preferred virtue-signaling sardoodledom
To real conversation and eye contact.
And, I’ve spent half my life doing that
More often than not.
—
I have written, texted, spoken—
Used any media available to me—
To try to say what I thought I had to say,
Instead of just pointing to where it hurt.
—
It doesn’t work any better leaning on my knees.
I prefer cobra pose with feet up, tapping behind me,
Or walking at night
Just before sleeping.
—
Let it all be so.
Let dreams turn to ribboned-presents.
Let thoughts upend realities.
And, come, make me the instrument.