Wednesday, June 22, 2011


                      susan ambrosino

You'll never run off with some clothes
A debit card and your Toyota Prius
Tearing across the country
To some out-of-the-way desert spot
In the wild west

Instead you spend much time walking
Carefully through live trees
Dodging roots, stumps, low branches
With the thought you'd like to change your name to
Moves Through Branches
In Pursuit of Nothing

It doesn't matter how long your walk will be
As long as it's enough to renew the history of many years.
If you need to get back to the house
For a glass of white wine
Or apple cinnamon tea
Never thinking about the connectivity of events
It's ok
You just go home.

The world bends
Can be worked like clay
If you talk to it

If you let it talk to you
Like it did when you were twelve
A newborn woman forever skating
At Coffman's Pond during Christmas week   
The world an unexplained innocent opening.

Your own private mountain
Starts with one stone every day
One that just fits in the palm of your hand
Drop it in the center of your yard.

You never know if what you say will make a difference
So you just go home
And go about your business
Wondering why it is you are still here
Steering the wobbly wheelbarrow of your choices
In the direction you want to go
Thinking you passed through grace by special selection.

You set yourself up
Blindly planning your life without knowing
That it was fine to be exactly who and what you are
Taking each day in small amounts
A type of slow graze that led you home

With doors suddenly opening
You standing surprised
Gazing into what you thought was the wrong vestibule
Thinking yourself in the midst of strangers

Living another life
With a future to fret about
And the need to invent sins for the confessional.

When you were six
The building across the street burned to the ground
You watched from the kitchen window
The amazement of flames and smoke
Fire trucks all night long
Then missed school the next day
Went to the RKO movie theatre
Ate popcorn

That's what mattered the most
The popcorn
With lots of butter and salt.

Being afraid of dying is silly.
When you're dead you don't know it.
It's like the unborn being afraid of life.

And you can only hope the little pains of daily life
Go on and on.

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