by Lisa Zaran
There's a man in my yard raking leaves.
I act out strange scenarios behind closed curtains,
dance like a maniac then stifle a laugh
because the window is cracked and he might hear.
There's a radio playing in the neighbors yard,
a dog formulating a fence jumping plot,
which I encourage by placing treats on the sill.
The song is nothing specific. The dog's name is Happy.
There's a dark appointed hour in which a husband
will return from work and a wife, decorated like
a flower, will renounce herself, dead as any terminal diagnosis.
All this I see from my viewpoint, as if I were appointed sister.
There's a child buried in my heart. I tell it not
to be afraid of the sound of rushing blood or darkness
for in both one can find consolation, an illumination
between the shadows. Why the eyes fill with tears,
the mouth with laughter, the mind with little opinions,
God only knows. After I have given up my life
for a better word, perhaps the whole world will read it
and nod their heads. She was right, they'll conjecture
and agree, the body is a violet plight of entanglements.
The heart is a little pointless mind of recollections.
The soul is a fish without wings, trapped in one shoulder
of the body. And there really is a man outside the window
raking leaves, clearing a path for us to dart across
and leave all our excesses behind. Why wonder?
One has to believe in something.