Some part of you is always yourself at 12
with the clunky black laptop that held your poems in a scroll
THE RESURRECTION
Listening to the radio in your room
thinking about a boy
and the school dance
holding some ancient thought of the other
Knowing and not knowing
new prayers you’ve been taught
you’ll always have this self
And You’re there for that poor little girl
You are there.
You woke, and the hemisphere had tilted,
sun flittered through the office and
remnants of light
unveiled themselves.
You already know –
by the wayside, where you sit to rest...
your cup, your drink, your song, your sight...
with the sun working its revolutions...
/
Waking has been your sweetest time lately,
your troubles have left, and you lie
unremembering like that for a moment.
When I was ten, I spontaneously decided one summer day was the best of my life. I got to eat lunch at a Chinese restaurant with my Dad, where he paid attention to me. I rode around in the driveway on my silver scooter, happy to glide within the plants and the heat. My sisters and I watched a new cartoon movie on tv that night, and ate orange creamsicles. I played in my head the movement of that day, feeling that things would soon change, and this quiet time was beautiful.
The man at the piano outside playing a song so cliche with so much feeling, his emotion making the common notes sparkle and glitter. You were standing outside an opera house designed by Mucha, whose young art rejoiced in desire and beauty. Later, he painted a heroine who held in her hands two rings, a crown of thorns, and one of stars: love’s pain and love’s glory. Don’t think one lives without the other.
