…time to pay the gas bill…
Yuram-Dong
August 18th, 2013 – a Sunday
ten days before my 32nd birthday
she was 16 years old, with a simple, stainless
smile…much like her pumpkin head…
those red sneakers were falling apart,
but she trudged along in them anyways
as her sloe-eyes peeked out from under
uneven and dismal bangs
that helmet haircut couldn’t protect her
from pernicious prowlers let alone
from playground put-downs
sweet sixteen
sorrowful seventeen
If there are whispers of the divine,
then surely they manifest themselves
in the curve of your spine, or perhaps,
through the curiosity of your
preoccupied face.
Even in the frost the tips of
her silver coat illuminate and
within the morning hush, her
steady purr sets the rhythm for
the day.
My breath slows as we stretch
towards the sun in the tabernacle
of our home.
*********************
These were the thoughts that prompted me
to get out of bed this morning. The image is
of my cat, Sorcha. It was taken in 2010, when
I lived in San Francisco. She is still with us.
Our home, which protects
us from society but not from
ourselves, acknowledges the
conversion of speech to action.
Four walls tumble down
every night, falling upon
cold, firm faces that have
not yet learned how to break.
They reassemble themselves
at dawn.
The heart that cannot remember
is condemned to repeat mistakes.
As a result, incongruous chambers
plug away despite the fact that their
desires will forever be at odds
with each other.
Somewhere, but not here,
you stand with me amidst the
sangria stars of Biseulsan
in a season of surging.
With sealed eyes we attend to the
coordinated calls of gaudy magpies.
Hovering harbingers fill us with fear for
we do not understand their warning.
Then, you begin to sing Albert’s song.
His words are stitched into your mouth
yet you still stumble upon the shore.
I do not understand your warning.
I reach for your hand, but find you gone again,
soaring far and wide in search of glittering orbs.
Down come the marigolds
upon my bare head.
Perhaps it is time to sleep.
An inquisitive ladybug creeps
over my left thumb, itching
for a late lunch.
We are both famished.
My shell has cracked wide
open yet I remain inside,
awaiting the revelation.
And so the afternoon continues.
sundry folly 