It’s not all about me.
We look up at the sky, wondering who is looking down.
It’s not all about me.
As we age, moments catch us like snags on
favorite cardigans
mended but never the same
too good for charity, too flawed to sell
value in sentiment and what was once
at first glance, flawless
as if such a thing matters after a while
too late we see this
after years of staring into mirrors thinking
if I were just a little prettier they would … love me, desire me, need me
it’s not all about me
or the holes we mend, attempting to recreate
but you find that out after many errors and so
is it any wonder the old will smile wistfully and proclaim
youth is wasted on the young
just as bras that are uncomfortable
are the domain of insecure girls like I was
clinging to images and totems
rather than digging my heels in and
staring upward at the sky
heavy with impending storm
so we left our youth like a shed skin
and not knowing of this wasteland stumbled
catching glimpses of who we were before
fear made us raw
the taste of elements on your tongue
every superstition a reminder
what you don’t know can harm
and then
letting go because the weight is
crushing you into absorbing mud
drying your scream
wondering
what did my ancestors feel? As they walked
witness to the stillness of night and
the unseen murmur of what could and is not
like a giant ships knot
impossible to pick
halts momentum
I stood like an ice princess
poised to act
and turned to fat
turned inside out and back
like a flipping cat will somersault maybe eight times
landing on his feet
my soles are sore
with the burden of myself
all those unlicked envelopes containing
individual tethers to places in time
experiences, terrors, lessons
and the well-worn knees of an ardent repenter
who throws down their sin
and still it sticks to him for one and the same
we become, with our habits and our movement
gliding through the years like ivory comb
will stick in tangled hair and pull
some loose
I dangle
from a mountain of my own making
all the aches, those childish glimmers
reflecting across the lake like
long fingers will create sound
we move to instinctively
tell me then
how to absolve myself of the penchant
for avoiding hard things
tell me then
how we live, in still life, arranged on a table
like hot watermelon, freshly sliced, drips its
sticky insides
tell me then
the exact mixture to eliminate that
terrible awareness you have
mastered easy ways out
only to find yourself
grown over with maze
tell me then
is it too late
when the hour strikes
and your reflection is almost unrecognized
to return and begin again
that clear, straight path
you once believed yourself on
before you lost courage