I wrote two little poems last night, thinking I’d fuss with them and post them as a form of practice. This morning I began answering the emails I found lined up with their bold, unopened headlines. Maybe I’ll get to them tonight, I thought about the two poems, which hovered in a happy cloud just beyond my immediate thoughts. Later, they broke up, wafted away, and the hope and joy they contained disappeared.
I had it backward. Every day I live is one day closer to my death. The gap ahead grows smaller. One mustn’t put off one’s heart’s desire. Feed the joy first.
Your hands are too small to hold
what you’ve been given. Quickly,
use it, or give it away. Burdens
are gifts stuck in place too long.
King of Wands
They send me to the room
where you give my brothers your blessing.
You hold an oaken staff, sit
on a throne carved with archaic symbols
recalling the stories that resulted
in me and many others. I push
through baize curtains unwillingly,
knowing that I do not interest you.
No matter. When I touch your hand
you shatter into dust.