This isn’t the play I thought I was in, I say, when I go to bed, again, without you. It’s not the part I was first offered, I tell myself as I lie awake.
when I can sit quietly with my son,
a struggle that grows harder as he grows up,
so that the memory I choose to unfold
is not the wolf, or the river, or the geysers,
but instead the hour I spent reading to him
beside the washing machines in Bozeman
and as arduous as they might be, may we
cultivate Bon courage, as Rodin declared to
Rilke once when he wished him goodnight.
The steps down to this labyrinth are large
no problem for my feet as many are.
Miners who grew up in the job were small.
I used to mow the graveyard
next to a church in South Strafford,
I feel your pain from afar.
Breach of trust on any level is hard to bear,
They all pretend to be free spirits, terrorists,
Not by the book just by the letter,
But hey, don’t they all write poetry,
Don’t we all write poetry, these days,
There is a place where my son waits for me. A place where he dreams himself, where shadows are not sewn fast to the hard ground, where he can name each and every demon riding the waves,
An actor in the audience asks how she so fully inhabits each role.
The stiffness falls away. Be honest, she says, be strong, even
And beneath, beyond it all, the world
we can’t conjure. Where we belong. Not with the crowd