My children, children,
there’s applesauce everywhere
but it’s not for you.
It is strange to help someone
grow while helping someone die.
*
Each time I write hope,
the letters fray and scatter.
The hopeful poets
never seem to have my dreams,
never seem to have children.
the letters fray and scatter.
The hopeful poets
never seem to have my dreams,
never seem to have children.
*
I tell my children
that hope is like a white skirt,
it can twirl and twirl,
that men like to open it,
take it apart, and wound it.
that hope is like a white skirt,
it can twirl and twirl,
that men like to open it,
take it apart, and wound it.
*
I tell my children
that sometimes I too can hope,
that sometimes nothing
moves but my love for someone,
and the light from the dead star.
that sometimes I too can hope,
that sometimes nothing
moves but my love for someone,
and the light from the dead star.
*
Do you smell my cries?
They come from another place.
The cry comes from you.
Now everything comes from you.
To be empty and so full.
They come from another place.
The cry comes from you.
Now everything comes from you.
To be empty and so full.
*
I tell my children
that they can wake anything,
that they are not yet
dying. But what do I know?
I know that a mother dies.
that they can wake anything,
that they are not yet
dying. But what do I know?
I know that a mother dies.
*
Sometimes all I have
are words and to write them means
they are no longer
prayers but are now animals.
Other people can hunt them.
are words and to write them means
they are no longer
prayers but are now animals.
Other people can hunt them.
*
You don’t need a thing
from me, you already have
everything you need:
the moon, a wound on the lake,
our footprints to not follow.
from me, you already have
everything you need:
the moon, a wound on the lake,
our footprints to not follow.
*
