[I.D. -
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.
End I.D.]
