I know now more people I love are dead
than alive. It’s time to say goodbye to the usual.
I rock back and forward. I never fit in my crib or bed—
nine months old I was two years tall,
I refused to enter my baby carriage.
Time passed, page after page,
I rejoiced and grieved with friends as if I were older,
a little ahead of myself,
I tripped over new leaf after new leaf.
I was learning death is something.
In another part of the forest, as a boy
with a bow and arrow I shot Iroquois.
I put my finger on the scale of the living.
I planted radishes, tomatoes, and geraniums.
I shook off sadness like a dog
shakes off water after a swim. Good grief, good dog,
I compiled my commonplace book of the dead.
I discovered a friend was alive I thought dead.
For the first time in my life I cried for joy.
* * *
I was befriended by wilderness.
I knew the kindness of evergreens
and conifers, the deep and shallow rooted.
I was protected from human angers
by the pawed, the clawed, the two and four-footed,
packs, flocks, schools. I watched them run,
swim, fly away from mortality.
Sometimes I kissed the nodders who could not say
yes or no, they were protected by the forest—
wildflowers were proof of summer, God, or both.
I loved my brothers and sisters who lived
on sun and water, grass and hanging grapes.
I saw the need to enter or be entered everywhere.
I was more luna moth than butterfly.
I shall, I will, you shall, you will.
I did not thank God, I thanked my lucky stars.
It’s late, not still, still. I steal time, I do not borrow.
For the time being, I’m driven because
self-driving cars are confused by a kangaroo.
I sing, “Take your partners. Whack. Huroo.”
What if I fought snakes in my carriage?
What if I had this or that marriage?
I say, “I want to get together,”
Jane hears, “I want to go to Ithaca.”