The self you leave behind
is only a skin you have outgrown.
Don’t grieve for it.
Look to the wet, raw, unfinished
self, the one you are becoming.
The world, too, sheds its skin:
politicians, cataclysms, ordinary days.
It’s easy to lose this tenderly
unfolding moment. Look for it
as if it were the first green blade
after a long winter. Listen for it
as if it were the first clear tone
in a place where dawn is heralded by bells.
And if all that fails,
wash your own dishes.
Stand in your kitchen at your sink.
Let cold water run between your fingers.
Posted with kind permission of the poet. From Olive Street Transfer, Amherst Writers & Artists Press (1999).
Who wouldn’t choose the just-washed white of this Aspire scripted with eighteen small miles on…
Let’s thank our mistakes, let’s bless them for their humanity, their terribly weak chins. We…
—for Papa Sitting on the deck by the river hushed and soft with the light…
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