She was my own mother’s voice
when mom was reaching
as deep inside as she could
for the sound of a wing on
a tender prayer
and strength is a pantomime of courage
played for the lights of a burned out marquee
before an audience eroding one by one—
some decomposing where they sit, the rest
just rising to forget they ever came.
I smile proudly at the bug,
cradle it in a sheet of paper
and set it gently down
on the ground outside.
These four words ignited fear – even terror – in the ranks of unmarried American men of all ages, races, religions, and economic means. So why should I be any different?
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I feel guilty. In the darkness of the night, I’m gutted with my privilege and toss and turn on my bed.
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“And how are you doing?” I want to say that I am not doing. I want
to say that I am existing; instead, I just exist. Like things just happen.
I exist the way you remember to breathe – out of habit.
It is all for the kiln - the gown as discreetly
and secretly brought every night in her bed
and wore her down—burnt.