DOESN’T EVERYTHING DIE AT LAST AND TOO SOON? TELL ME, WHAT IS IT YOU PLAN TO DO WITH YOUR ONE WILD AND PRECIOUS LIFE?
amanda, you’ve grown older
and i have too
all i know now is thin skin
and little points for eyes.
how much have i forgotten about you already?
i remember though
the smell of sunshine on your face
spilling onto mine
you wore bright infectious cheeks
and gave me a second pair to borrow.
i dressed in your likeness.
you were my sister.
with matching earrings, and
matching birthmarks on our hips,
it was always june.
we spoke in old tongue-
pretending we were secret best friends
Mother and rose
and our unwelcome chatter rolled
through the company store.
on our way back, it rained again
we laughed
you and your alabaster smile.
home was a hundred seconds away
Don't you think I understand?
The hopeless dream of being.
Not seeming, but being.
In every waking moment
aware, alert.
The tug of war... what you are
with others and who you really are.
A feeling of vertigo
and a constant hunger
to be finally exposed.
To be seen through,
cut down...
even obliterated.
Every tone of voice a lie.
Every gesture false.
Every smile a grimace.
Commit suicide?
That's unthinkable.
You don't do things like that.
But you can refuse to move
and be silent.
Then, at least,
you're not lying.
You can shut yourself in,
shut out the world.
Then you don't
have to play any roles,
show any faces,
make false gestures.
You'd think so...
...but reality is diabolical.
Your hiding-place
isn't watertight.
Life trickles in everywhere.
You're forced to react.
Nobody asks if it's real or not,
if you're honest or a liar.
Some Questions You Might Ask ~ by Mary Oliver
Is the soul solid, like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, like
the wings of a moth in the beak of the owl?
Who has it, and who doesn’t?
I keep looking around me.
The face of the moose is as sad
as the face of Jesus.
The swan opens her white…
Little Fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance,
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death;
Then am I
A happy fly.
If I live,
Or if I die.
from ‘Songs of Experience’
by William Blake
