We know separation so well because we’ve tasted the union. The reed flute makes music because it has already experienced changing mud and rain and light into sugarcane. Longing becomes more poignant if in the distance you can’t tell whether your friend is going away or coming back. The pushing away pulls you in.
Sometimes I forget completely
what companionship is.
Unconscious and insane, I spill sad
energy everywhere. My story
gets told in various ways: a romance,
a dirty joke, a war, a vacancy.
Divide up my forgetfulness to any number,
it will go around.
These dark suggestions that I follow,
are they part of some plan?
Friends, be careful. Don’t come near me
out of curiosity, or sympathy.
One night in the desert
a poor Bedouin woman has this to say
to her husband,
“Everyone is happy
and prosperous, except us! We have no bread.
We have no spices. We have no water jug.
We barely have any clothes. No blankets
for the night. We fantasize that the full moon
is a cake. We reach for it! We’re an embarrassment
even to the beggars. Everyone avoids us.
Arab men are supposed to be generous warriors,
but look at you, stumbling around! If some guest
were to come to us, we’d steal his rags
when he fell asleep. Who is your guide
that leads you to this? We can’t even get
a handful of lentils! Ten years’ worth
of nothing, that’s what we are!”
She went on and on.
“If God is abundant, we must be following
an imposter. Who’s leading us? Some fake,
that always says, Tomorrow, illumination
will bring you treasure, tomorrow.
As everyone knows, that never comes.
Though I guess, it happens very rarely, sometimes,
that a disciple following an imposter can somehow
surpass the pretender. But still I want to know
what this deprivation says about us.”
The husband replied, finally,
“How long will you complain
about money and our prospects for money? The torrent
of our life has mostly gone by. Don’t worry about
transient things. Think how the animals live.
The dove on the branch giving thanks.
The glorious singing of the nightingale.
The gnat. The elephant. Every living thing
trusts in God for its nourishment.
These pains that you feel are messengers.
Listen to them. Turn them to sweetness. The night
is almost over. You were young once, and content.
Now you think about money all the time.
You used to be that money. You were a healthy vine.
Now you’re a rotten fruit. You ought to be growing
sweeter and sweeter, but you’ve gone bad.
As my wife, you should be equal to me.
Like a pair of boots, if one is too tight,
the pair is of no use.
Like two folding doors, we can’t be mismatched.
A lion does not mate with a wolf.”
So this man who was happily poor
scolded his wife until daybreak,
when she responded,
“Don’t talk to me
about your high station! Look how you act!
Spiritual arrogance is the ugliest of all things.
It’s like a day that’s cold and snowy,
and your clothes are wet too!
It’s too much to bear!
And don’t call me your mate, you fraud!
You scramble after scraps of bone
with the dogs.
You’re not as satisfied as you pretend!
You’re the snake and the snake charmer
at the same time, but you don’t know it.
You’re charming a snake for money,
and the snake is charming you.
You talk about God a lot, and you make me feel guilty
by using that word. You better watch out!
That word will poison you, if you use it
to have power over me.”
So the rough volume of her talking
fell on the husband, and he fought back,
“Woman,
this poverty is my deepest joy.
This bare way of life is honest and beautiful.
We can hide nothing when we’re like this.
You say I’m really arrogant and greedy,
and you say I’m a snake charmer and a snake,
but those nicknames are for you.
In your anger and your wantings
you see those qualities in me.
I want nothing from this world.
You’re like a child that has turned round and round,
and now you think the house is turning.
It’s your eyes that see wrong. Be patient,
and you’ll see the blessings and the lord’s light
in how we live.”
This argument continued
throughout the day, and even longer.
A night full of talking that hurts,
my worst held-back secrets. Everything
has to do with loving and not loving.
This night will pass.
Then we have work to do.
You miss the garden,
because you want a small fig from a random tree.
You don’t meet the beautiful woman.
You’re joking with an old crone.
It makes me want to cry how she detains you,
stinking mouthed, with a hundred talons,
putting her head over the roof edge to call down,
tasteless fig, fold over fold, empty
as dry-rotten garlic.
She has you tight by the belt,
even though there’s no flower and no milk
inside her body.
Death will open your eyes
to what her face is: leather spine
of a black lizard. No more advice.
Let yourself be silently drawn
by the stronger pull of what you really love.
You’re sitting here with us, but you’re also out walking
in a field at dawn. You are yourself
the animal we hunt when you come with us on the hunt.
You’re in your body like a plant is solid in the ground,
yet you’re wind. You’re the diver’s clothes
lying empty on the beach. You’re the fish.
In the ocean are many bright strands
and many dark strands like veins that are seen
when a wing is lifted up.
Your hidden self is blood in those, those veins
that are lute strings that make ocean music,
not the sad edge of surf, but the sound of no shore.
Has anyone seen the boy who used to come here?
Round-faced troublemaker, quick to find a joke, slow
to be serious. Red shirt,
perfect coordination, sly,
strong muscles, with things always in his pocket: reed flute,
ivory pick, polished and ready for his talent.
You know that one.
Have you heard stories about him?
Pharaoh and the whole Egyptian world
collapsed for such a Joseph.
I’d gladly spend years getting word
of him, even third or fourth-hand.
My worst habit is I get so tired of winter
I become a torture to those I’m with.
If you’re not here, nothing grows.
I lack clarity. My words
tangle and knot up.
How to cure bad water? Send it back to the river.
How to cure bad habits? Send me back to you.
When water gets caught in habitual whirlpools,
dig a way out through the bottom
to the ocean. There is a secret medicine
given only to those who hurt so hard
they can’t hope.
The hopers would feel slighted if they knew.
Look as long as you can at the friend you love,
no matter whether that friend is moving away from you
or coming back toward you.
with fear. Take sips of breath
all day and night, before death
closes your mouth.
Dissolver of sugar, dissolve me,
if this is the time.
Do it gently with a touch of a hand, or a look.
Every morning I wait at dawn. That’s when
it’s happened before. Or do it suddenly
like an execution. How else
can I get ready for death?
You breathe without a body like a spark.
You grieve, and I begin to feel lighter.
You keep me away with your arm,
but the keeping away is pulling me in.
pale the wall.
Love moves away.
The light changes.
I need more grace
than I thought.