Last night
as I curled up in pain
on the soft bathroom rug,
I thought about dying.
Not then and there,
though it would have
eased the pain,
but the fact that
as soon as we are born
we start dying
and that
inevitably
either my kids
die before me
or I before them.
Neither seems right.
In the morning
my pain is just
a faint body memory.
The rain has washed
the air clean
and in my garden
the rat’s tail radish
has sprouted
tender first leafs.
She is tall for her age.
The anger that vibrates
through her body,
as her fists harden,
her muscles tense,
her eyes on high alert,
following the pack of boys
ready to strike and
used to fighting
for her own space.
She tries so hard
to do the right thing,
is so proud when she,
against her instincts and
against her lessons learned,
tells a grown-up
and doesn’t explode.
“Help me calm down.”
she asks through
clenched teeth,
and while I hold her
and sing a German song
she doesn’t understand,
her shoulders tentatively
soften, while her eyes
are still scanning
the school yard
to keep us
safe.
The eager tulips
are standing
to attention,
undeterred
by last night’s frost,
ignorant
of the weather report.
They are ready
standing straight
lifting their heads,
as close as they can
to the sun.
We walked a while
in deep conversation
with or without words,
digging deep through
the fertile compost and
harsh deserts of our souls,
until our paths parted.
We waved every
once in a while,
for as long as
we could still see each other
calling out across the ravine.
Sometimes, in my dreams
I am still waving,
I am still telling you
everything, as your shadows
walk with me.
I had to learn
to throw out
perfectly fine
little carrots,
if I wanted any
to mature.
But which ones
to pick?
A small animal
that made its home
in the caves
of my soul,
I can feel it
rummaging around.
Every once in a while
it comes out to feed
and see the sun.
If I tried to
poison it
I’d poison my soul
and who knows
what would move in
if I chased it out?
So I pause and greet it
respectfully.
Sometimes we converse
for a while,
as we hold
our wet faces
into the crisp winter sun
and I want to ask:
Where were you before?
Every death holding hands
with another, earlier death,
keeping each other
close and connected
across the decades,
each standing on the shoulders
of an earlier birth,
which is standing
on the shoulders of births
before that,
and all of them,
in this lunatic
defiance of gravity,
dancing.
Pebbles in my mouth 