The Ocean

some,
like those plunged into the depths of the ocean,
must struggle upwards,
always upwards,
toward the light and the surf,
toward the sun and the drifting wood,
toward the day and the night
and the laughter of children
and the chatter of seagulls.

i,
born on the surface,
floating with the plankton,
let myself sink and struggled to rise,
dove again into the black depths,
wanting the sensation of
burning lungs,
burning joints,
desperate eyes,
lips pinched tightly between trembling teeth.

can the experience ever be the same?
one thrown,
one going willingly,
one forced,
one wondering in the direction of
one in pain,
one swimming into an abstraction?

can the crests of waves ever empathize
with the corpse
at the bottom of the sea?
can they ask of the bloated remains
that rise to the surface:
what was it like?
how did it feel?

i wish i had been there –
there on that day
when you were dragged so far down.
i wish i had struggled upward with you,
choking on my own lack of oxygen,
wondering if i would ever reach the surface.

i wish i had been there when you

broke through the waves,
laughed with the wind,
and jumped into the sky.

Just for a Moment

just for a moment,
set aside what we say
about a man and a woman,
about a man and a man,
about a woman and a woman.

just for a moment,
ignore the dark corners of
our Bible,
our Torah,
our Qur'an,
our Kitáb-i-Aqdas.

just for a moment,
resign to that hidden place in your mind,
where acidic thoughts are neutralized
with ash and lime,
the memories of what our Fathers have done in the name of
our God,
our Holy God,
our Most Holy God.

just for a moment,
a moment
a moment
a moment no longer than the life of a Saint,
let these things rest,
while i pray for the answers
to all of your questions.

Ideas

what is it that makes you pause
in the middle of a poem,
raise your head,
spinning from the assault
of so many words –
phrases –
little pieces of thoughts
not quite fully formed?

when someone else has written
your ideas for you one hundred times –

your ideas now –
your ideas in the future –
your ideas before you were born –

what is it that makes you
write them down for yourself,
reiterating what poets have,
from the first mind and the first mirror,
been whispering to themselves –
that which now rises from their graves
in fragments –
broken pieces of sentences
retaining just enough
of their original intention
to remind you that

life in your mind is
life in my mind

and now i can remember myself
painting my door in chaotic swirls of emotion
as you did when the thought occurred to you

that the infinite void hanging
over your pillow every night
is the same for everyone
and everyone sings to themselves
to fill the space with something because

how could so much space
be so empty?

Montpeyroux

i opened my eyes this morning
to the sun shining on your face.
mediterranean, like your brother.
your expression calm,
your breathing mild,
your eyes closed and you,
peaceful, dreaming.

it was no different than waking up
in montpeyroux one winter years ago
after too much wine
and too much french.
hardly making it back up the stairs,
throwing my culture shock at you
like a brick
and you catching it,
turning it over into a pillow,
laying it under my head.

now there's only pride in front of us,
pride and memories,
and me,
still struggling up the stairs,
and you,
still pulling the down comforter
up around my shoulders.

Dried Bark

dried bark scattered on the ground
holding down the rain,
telling stories of
anxious wind lavishing bare branches,
dew-speckled trees braced,
budding.

dried bark turning over in my hands,
picked apart into
shimmering golden-brown worlds,
sublimating in the sun
fading in my grasp.