My man does his crying on a fast horse.
I do my best dancing with strangers.
The child screams through the moment
of silent prayer, says "It's a free country,"
says "You and what army." You can't
trespass on a river, you're only in
the wrong when you step out of it
into this field. All false hopes translate
to just beginnings. There was no grace
of God. I went. No secret that the sun
and moon have always slept in separate beds.
Gives some steel, steals some time and
calls it "borrowed," bruises and calls it
"something blue." A red bird, a yellow bird,
not in the same hour's frame but close
enough for their color together to make
a kind of ringing. I thought he brought
the water from the spring but he's still
bringing. I delegated. My job is waiting.
Is drinking water. I'm learning to say
"It's a free country: this army, but not me."
New Yorker Aug 15 & 22 2011