A Good Poet Orders Chaos
I’ve always been fiercely loyal to the truth. Even though it made trouble. Even when it was difficult to speak the words. Lying, to me, seems cowardly (and I am very brave (Doug would say across the room, ‘Hubris’, and we would laugh)).
My words are like foot soldiers. I send them in defenseless, bullets whizzing all around, and beg them to keep their balance. Mostly they do, and I am grateful. Sometimes they escape, while the commander is sleeping, and there are casualties.
I love words, and I love silence. If I were forced to choose, I might choose silence and be ok with that. Only imagine the words, as the blind, once sighted, imagine color, in the darkness behind their eyes. I’ve come from darkness, and now that I can see, why do I feel the need to describe it? Why not just luxuriate in color, drench the eyes in beauty, why not refuse the memory?
Mostly I do, for which I’m grateful. But every now and then, a child forgotten in a hot car, a dog starved to death on purpose, an old woman stabbed for $13.00 and I weep for those who have lost the light, and I pray that there’s someone who can help them. And once, in naive ignorance, I even prayed it might be me.
LBM 8/15/2019
