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"i don't think this next poem needs any introduction-- it's best to let the words speak for themselves"- Billy Collins, in his poem, "The Introduction."
12.30.2012
Origin Stories
5
years old:
The
world is made of love,
I
know it is.
We
rose from it,
like
mud,
spattered
and cold,
shaking
in shock and disbelief,
maybe.
I
don't know how I came to be here,
exactly,
but
I know it's a good thing.
And
still there are fairies flickering in the sudden blackness
every
time I turn the lights off.
They
are not quite their own beings,
but
specks of the stuff that holds the world together,
like
the dust left over from everything being made.
We
recognize each other,
even
in the dark.
I
lay in bed at night
and
send wishes to my grandmother,
and
the boy I like,
so
they know how much I love them.
I
see it: My wish ripples through the mud,
and
my grandma picks it up,
and
it's like a strange creature, growing larger.
Maybe
it wraps itself around her body,
like
a blanket,
or
maybe it swallows her whole.
My
grandma lives inside my love.
Everybody
does.
10
years old:
Now
there are sadnesses.
There
didn't used to be.
They
land on my chest like birds with no home.
All
they have is my body to live in.
All
they have is my love to eat.
So
they stay a while,
inside
me,
cold
and sick, trying to grow strong enough
to
leave.
25,
now:
I
know now the sadnesses come in waves.
I
track them on paper,
drawing,
inadvertently, the oceans beneath me,
or,
around me,
sometimes
the
ground moves and swells.
Cori
says
she
thinks these sudden sadnesses
are
from some kids somewhere,
full
of magic,
full
of power,
sending
wishes,
strong
as earthquakes,
not knowing where they're headed.
I
believe it.