till I understand the dead

tree’s part in the design.

I long like a root, deeper

in the earth, so I can reach

farther to the sky.

So don’t tell me

there’s nothing

in your bucket.

To brush my teeth has

significance after three

weeks of lying flat. And

there’s glory in the water

from my mouth as it swirls

down the sink in rhythm

with the largest falls

I’ve never seen.

And when the missing

rib aches, I dream of

swimming naked in life’s

waters with those who

pulled me back to this

season of mystery

so many refuse.

Letter Home

LETTER HOME

You ask if anything’s changed.

I write this in an open boat

in the middle of a lake

which has been drawing me

to its secret for months.

I am becoming more like water

by the day. The slightest brace

of wind stirs me through.

I am more alive than ever.

What does that mean?

That in the beginning

I was awakened

as if a step behind,

always catching up,

as if waking in the middle

of some race that started

before I arrived, waking

to all these frantic strangers

hurrying me on,

as if landing in the middle

of some festival not knowing

what to celebrate, as if

someone genuine and beautiful

had offered to love me

just before I could hear

and now I must find her.

You ask if anything’s changed.

I am drifting in the lake

and now it’s a matter of slowing

so I can feel everything.

You say I don’t sound the same.

It’s ’cause I think more like a fish

and only surface to eat.

I used to complain so much,

annoyed that every chore

would need to be done again,

that the grass would grow back

as soon as I’d cut it. Now

I am in awe how it will grow

no matter what you do to it.

How I need that knowledge.

You say I don’t try as much with you.

It’s ’cause you still behave

as if life is everywhere

but where you are

and I need new knowledge.

It has not all been pleasant.

One of us died the other day.

The last time I saw him,

we held hands through a park fence—

he was thin—but we held on as if

the fence weren’t there and as if

he were already on the other side.

Now we pray for him anyway, imagining

peace a lighter affair once gone

like pebbles sinking softly underwater.

I put my palm on the water’s surface

lightly, not trying to hold any of it,

just feeling it push back.

You ask and I hesitate.

It seems everything has changed

when, in fact, it is only me.

I was closed so long, I thought

opening was breaking and in rare

broken moments I’ve seen now

how your secret is my secret