Just Poetry

Although I'm not writing too many poems these days, there was a time when they came sliding out, one after another. I was in a kind of limbo then: hopeful & hopeless, passionate & protective, certain & confused--all at the same time.
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I think that kind of confusion often encourages good writing.
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This poem is now part of then, my history, and I'm glad for it. No regrets.
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I Don’t Care
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I don’t care if the distance spans the decades
And the patterns never form,
If I never understand the photos
Where we look straight into the camera
your arm hanging over my shoulder,
cradling my cracked smile,
The one I tried so hard
To keep it together
Even when the fragments flew.
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I don’t care if the bluebirds turn around

And head back to what was never home,
That place we began but never finished,
That corner where we tried to intersect
But instead fell apart
in just that broken moment
When I told you I would endure
And you told me that was worthless.
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I don’t care that I am baking pies today,
My senses somersaulting from the memory
Of my mother’s hands,
Moving back and forth
Kneading back and forth,
Following a rhythm I never learned—
A rhythm I think about at midnight
When my dreams will not keep still.
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I would watch her dice and slice
Those moments so skillfully
I did not know my childhood was over
Until the day I left home,
Until the day you left me.
Until this day,
When all I can do
Is roll out the dough
And try to rise along with it,
Even when I know so well
I will clearly fall again.

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I don’t care that I cannot maintain
Hope that cannot be sifted
In any form but by its splendid grief.
If I thought it was enough
To carry those ten sticks to town,
Just to hold them and push forward,
I would do that.
Gladly. Totally. Certainly.
I would open your garden gate
And ring your bell
And wait in place
Until the door opened
And there you were,
Scowling at my folly
To dare to come at all.
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I would try to tell you
That somewhere so deep
I have never found my way
I believe there is a rising rhythm
That makes things right.
I would offer you my sticks
And then I would put my arms
Behind my back, barely moving,
Clenching with a driving hope
That you know that
I don’t care
Really means
I never learned
Not to.