I write a poem about fucking you and then I delete it
I think, shit, what if I died tomorrow and a grieving family
member found that in my Dropbox, but when I told my
friend that, she said, why didn’t you just save it in
your vault and double password protect it
She’s a smart woman, but it seems like a lot
of effort to go to for a poem that is just about fucking
You know, maybe I would bother going to the
vault for an important poem about climate change
or some other significant issue: the world’s state of
health, war, or thoughts on race or gender,
political stuff, the stuff I’m not really that good
at writing but I admire people who do write it. I
admire them but I don’t read any of it. Is that
true? I could be selling myself short here. I
am not apolitical and while I could label my
preference for poetry about grass blowing
in the wind and daisies privileged, I’m not
going to do that. I am politically motivated
and I like daisies, other kinds of flowers,
and grass. Seriously, even grass, like how
often you should mow it or not, has become
a political issue these days. I prefer unmown grass.
When you don’t mow your grass, you
save yourself a lot of time, and create less noise
and pollution, and when you see all the little
creatures and plants and flowers creeping back
into your tiny ecosystem of a garden, you will
feel joy, and you should feel free to say to your
family and friends that not mowing your
lawn is a political act. While you’re at it,
put up some re-wilding posters around
your local neighbourhood. Drop some flyers
off. The daisies you are growing are a
revolution.
I had never seen your grave
I never saw all of our family,
dressed in suits and black dresses
lining up to say goodbye to you
My sister told me they each threw
ferns, not flowers, in your grave.
It’s a year later now, nearly to the day
I am here and the sky is very still above me.
When you are in pain you keep wanting nature
to do dramatic things, like that the skies would
open and you would lift up your face and the water
would pour over it while you are kneeling by your
father’s grave, or even just a thunderclap or two
would be good, however what you find
Is that it’s just you, as usual, kneeling with your chest aching
and your stomach twisting and a headache. And the tears,
because there are many of these, and you never seem
to run out of them, as if there is no allotment, and you
might just keep crying and crying for years. Inexhaustible tears.
Endless tears. Relentless tears. Hot and cold tears.
Tears upon tears. Tears.
Through the headache, I hear cicadas, and birds. I hear
the movement of trees, I hear, distantly, cars driving by
on the main road. I hear the sounds of life continuing
around me.
But then there is a pause, and in between seconds, I stop.
And I can hear my son laughing because it is a beautiful day,
and there are so many flowers.