By Mallory Mishler
1.
All that interests me in this world
is that long labor of love - the giving
and receiving, the daily task of
digging it up from the ground,
to rinse off, tender, in the sink,
put out in the sun to dry
ready in time for us to gather at the
dinner table and share about our days.
There is so much in the way, and at
the same time, nothing at all, and even
that nothingness ever emptying itself
like plates at the table, leaves in the winter.
2.
Do you remember long days
scavenging for salamanders
by the river - turning rocks belly-up
giddy and delighted, and a bit scared
as each slippery black tail wiggled
quick and anxious away?
Or, entire August nights poised
with glass jars at the ready,
peeling our eyes for the flash
of lightning bugs, a tiny fire
immediately snuffed, tucked
between layers of the dark?
And do you ever think of the turtles
we plucked from steaming piles of
seaweed and held hostage in
buckets in the back shed?
Or, and this pains me still,
the rabbits in the garden, and dad
on the porch with his old, long gun?
If we’d stopped just a moment
to listen, do you think we may
have heard the small voice
of a salamander begging
to be left alone, at peace,
hidden nicely under the quiet
of his dark rock?
3.
I crouch alone in the bushes and
sneak silently under the cover of trees
looking for signs in the clouds, the leaves -
Looking for a reason to lock away
that old heart of mine, which seems
to be the source of all this misery.
Secretly, I hope to come home
with arms empty, nothing to show.
As the old poet says, “Love is a river.
Drink from it.” And I try.
But I worry, these days,
that if love is a river,
suffering is the current
running just below the surface -
One more step, and the tides
may trip me by the ankles and
tumble me downstream until the
river herself swims through my
hollow, scratching lungs.
Parched, I find myself at the edge
helpless to keep my footing against
that which goes on, beautiful and
swift, and senseless.
4.
Some days I wake early, raring
to fight against the relentless
movement of time - against the
hands of the clock, which are,
I know, whittled from bone.
Yet, other days, I am ready
to sit down in the mud and let
this tired body turn, once again,
to a garden.
Wherever I stand, the sun still rises
across the sky each morning, and
the trees whisper to each other
so loud I can’t help but listen.
“I’m sorry,” they say. “I love you.”
Yes - for love, we must keep on.
But, I dream of a place where we
stop this walking for just a moment
to lie down on the moss, together,
to breathe one small, rebellious breath.
Tell me again how the branches look like lungs
gasping against the night sky, from this side
of the ground, which is so close to the other
I can almost feel a heart thump just beneath mine.
Mallory Mishler is a poet/writer/human based out of Southern Colorado. Her passion and connection to wild spaces combined with a longing toward deeper meaning and spirituality influence her work (and life – are they not the same?).
Comments