drips into truth

i went swimming tonight
wearing the least clothing i've
worn outside my room
since i was a baby
and my skin was enough clothing always.

i was surprised
how it felt so natural
so comfortable
how the water was just
slightly colder than the air
how the only difference
between in the water and out
was the density of the substance surrounding me.

i stood
head out of the water
in the middle of the pool and
felt the little waves roll up against me.
so gentle,
calming, and
rhythmic.
no distinct back and forth,
just a constant pulse around me

then through me

and then i was the pulse
everything was the pulse

dark green trees swayed in the breeze
conversed with each other as
the wind danced with them
back and forth
back and forth.
i looked through them
into the depths of the blue sky
that remained calm
beneath the background of all the earth-bound activity
(everything was connected
everything moved together
flowed together
flower through together
and i was a part of all that. )

i broke from the reverie
and got out of the water,
put a towel on,
and circled round the pool,
watching my wet footprints evaporate into the air.
i felt the warmth on my feet as i walked,
and i walked until the sun and air had dried my skin.
then went back inside,
took a shower,
suddenly very aware
of the sound
of the water
hitting the
floor
and my neck
and my back
and the way it
dripped

i AM the lady of the lake.



i sit here now
wearing my long red skirt
with my hair hanging down my back
it's drying and becoming wavy
with the ends
still dripping with water.

there are cookies that i've made in the oven,
but i haven't made them for the family,
and i haven't made them to impress dinner guests,
and i haven't made them because someone's hungry,
and i haven't made them to call attention to myself
i've made them simply because it felt right
because i wanted to.

pocket excavation

I've just found treasure in my pockets.

Among the gum wrappers
and loose change
there are
scraps and crumbs
of my life --

A ticket to a high school concert,
when the thought crossed my mind
for a few seconds
that maybe there were
moments
of
goodness
in high school,

A program from a play I saw
a few days after my my first birthday
away from home
when I realized that I had
found
a
second
home
and a second family,

Momentos from a talent show,
a madrigals concert,
there's a fortune cookie fortune that says,
"You have more to say than you think,"
with the English to Chinese pronunciation
of "They are fine,"
on the back,

And there are buttons
that I've been meaning to sew
on for 3 years now.

They've been here for three whole years,
Traveled to exotic locales in rain, snow, and sunshine.
And I
Unaware
Have taken them along as stowaways
Unnoticed passengers on my journeys.


My pockets are wide and deep, and
I put things in here,
Forgetting that I sometimes forget about them
For a long time

But I always remember
Clean them out.
Eventually.

I wonder what I'll find in there
This time next year.

a different kind of plea

Dear Moon Lady,

Please help me look beyond.
Tell me that there is beauty --
it's so hard to remember sometimes
it's so hard to look beyond
these steel bars between me and the meadows
of wildflowers and
ocean breezes and
bohemian dreams that exist between
Land and Water and Sky,
yet encompass it all.
These steel bars are
cold and impersonal and ugly
and they draw me in
and it's hard to see beyond them
and they make me
Restless.

And the fields of green
And the skies of blue are
beautiful and warm.

Please
Tell me there's goodness.

Tell me I'm not crazy for thinking like this.

a plea ignored

Today,
I passed a man
Who was huddled on a stoop
In the fetal position
"Please," he said,
"I just want something to eat."

Well, he didn't say it
Not really, anyway.
He cried it
He pleaded it
He begged for his life.
And nobody helped him.

I didn't help him.

I quickened my pace
And his words echoed
Again
And again in my head until
I was too disgusted with myself.

Why didn't I stop?
Why didn't anyone stop?
Why did an oncoming man
Take the time to comment on
A woman's body
But not give a dying man a second glance?

Any one of the thousands of
People who passed that stoop
Could have stopped.
But only a few probably did.

Maybe he was a drug addict
In need of a fix,
I tell myself,
Trying to make sense.
Maybe he has committed
Horrible crimes, which
Left him a broken, penny-less man,
I comfort myself.

But I am not the one who needs comfort.
All I know, is this:

He was desperate.
Nobody cared.