I wanted a poem to come out of my sadness,
but no poem came. I wanted a revolution
to come out of my burnout, but no revolution
came. I wanted a bird to fly through my open
window, but my window was closed. I wanted
sun on an evening when it was already dark.
I wanted just a bit of grief rather than despair.
&, in my shame, I wanted my childhood back.
I wanted to walk backward out of the room
where I kept my secrets. I wanted to say I’m hurt
before my hurt became a character trait I told
no one but myself. When I wanted unknowing,
I was given certainty, & when I wanted the hard
& fixed line, I was given mystery. Sometimes,
I wanted to give it all back, but to who, I wondered,
& how? I wanted a life to come out of my life,
but instead I was left with my life. All that wanting,
I think now, & still I woke this morning to light
& the memory of the time a bird did fly through
the open window of my apartment, &, scared
& senseless, shat all over the couch before leaving.
All that wanting, right? Sometimes it happens
& sometimes it doesn’t & sometimes it happens
worse. Make do, little friend I call myself. Walk
backward out of the room you have made out
of your wanting into the room of where you are.
The poem is here. The revolution, too. & love,
still, even in the evening, when light still shines.