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I chart the psyche, observing how I force myself to speak to you, imagining that together we might transform a life. Why this need to document change, to reverse a mood, to carry forward the time when magnolias bloom? Let’s follow the itinerant we up and over the jonquil's back, treading on its spilled bullion.
From Sex At Noon Taxes, Copyright © 2007 by Sally Van Doren. Reprinted with permission of the author.
Here I am with all my flaws
seeking form and shelter.
I blanche at the notion
of violence, but it’s coming
after us, closing in like a
superstition I can’t shake.
If I acquiesce to your harsh
future you must promise me
one thing. Where we go we will
find our youth again. Can you
see it there under the yellow linen
tablecloth? I’m depending on it.
Her regime expires when
the moon meets the sun
on the horizon we can’t see
because the sycamore trees
next door block our view.
Our world droops in anticipation.
We would like to exchange
the unkind for the kind but
we can’t find the strength
to oust the inevitable. Instead
we joke about politics and watch
our neighbors arm themselves.
Every morning I let it all go.
Then it starts coming back,
sometimes blurred, sometimes
stuttering, sometimes suspended
on a linear dartboard that
I try to impale myself upon.
Even when the skylight is leaking,
I look for the peephole
that will ensnare my vision