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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.
heard Ana @ 10:47 PM