we wait

they said there would be joy

everyone at the gathering is wearing black

so we wait

we wait in silence

we turn off the lights

we listen to the pain

then we join each other

in a song     we tell the story

as if it were true

as if every tear will be wiped away

getting older

so many broken

bones     so many

bumps and bruises

so many twists

and strains across

the body     a history

of striving     forward

motion interrupted

how far one travels

measured by intention

what one dares

each endeavour

a promise

the gift of work

the discipline

of desire     wrapping

hands around you

each tool

full of potential

each task

a seed     each

completion a gift

i keep getting

older     i still feel

young     it is both

true and not true

perception thin

like onion skin

daybreak

there is only this weight

hollowing out my belly

there is no strength in my hands

sleep is a fugitive thing

i wake with skin vibrating

and breathing shallow

how many times will i turn

sheets wrapped around me like a shroud

the intermittent flicker of the clock

insistent and implacable

steel yourself for the day, the week

fold forward and set your feet

this is all you have left to do:

step into the light

simple things

simplicity is not a light thing.

it is an act of brutality.

an imposition of the will

stamped on the skin,

the bruise of humility blooming

in the muscles, the bones

bearing the weight of each decision.

it is a brave thing

to let truth smack you in the face.

do not turn away;

concern yourself with discipline,

cutting off the accumulation

of indifference and distraction,

the delicate removal of the veil,

the insertion of new lenses

with which to view the world.

you must learn to use new tools,

or the old tools in new ways,

or maybe you only need your hands,

capable of both gentleness and violence,

every small act larger than you ever imagined.

fish

They used to call me fish.

I have no idea why.

I only know I couldn’t breathe

in my small town;

I wasn’t the only one.

It’s been 35 years since I lived there.

The only thing I really miss

is the fried chicken from Uncle Nicky’s.

I try not to indulge in nostalgia.

I have few illusions.

There was one gathering

a few years after graduation.

It was tragic.

I won’t go into details.

For some people,

high school never ends.

I’ve seen one old classmate since then,

one of my closest friends,

working on campus—

a tradesman who used to be an artist.

Perhaps he is still.

Somehow I’ve heard the occasional rumour.

I know he was married

to one of the most beautiful girls in town,

that he got divorced a few years later,

that he still skateboards.

I know who he was.

I have no idea how.

Perhaps we all stay the same

in all the important ways:

the seeds of our flowering

the wounds that once seemed so deep.

I still have no idea why they called me fish.