Signed,
Sealed and Delivered
Between
sheets, in my nightly envelope,
I wait for sleep to deliver me to tomorrow.
Today’s story is written in my body:
my hips and back ache,
and though I yield to gravity, my mind
summons ghosts of the day —
smells
from the hospital corridor,
sterility stirs memories and fear.
Finally, I find my friend
before her mastectomy.
sounds
in the cafeteria where
pockets of people share anxiety,
like a hot potato passed back and forth.
My friend sleeps, her surgery over.
sights
at the pond where I walk my worries,
hoping to see a bittern perched on the pier
like the last time, but the bittern isn’t there.
Change. Always change.
My
mind quiets and dreams
sign their signature to my day.
|
Eyes Closed
I go to a meditation
group to learn
what lures them here. Some sit
on mats, others on chairs. A bell rings.
Silence begins.
Inhale, exhale, and I
try
to quiet my thoughts: I’m hungry, bored.
I get the urge to peek, and I do.
I see faces, eyes
closed, masks removed,
and feel guilt as if I’d gone into their bedrooms,
seen the vulnerability hidden by open eyes.
Yesterday in the
checkout aisle, a
mother,
carrying her infant, shared his sleeping face:
innocence, guilelessness—our paradise lost.
And here, for this
half hour, people
come,
sit, and enter that state. Seeing this,
I join them, and shut my eyes.
Full Moon
Night’s curtain
falls
and center stage, you rise.
The set sun spotlights you
and, born to this role,
you outshine the stars.
|
