by Monica Hosky
Doomy days with the clouds teasing
muted calico from the sky, breathe
and let the wind do you the intermittent favor of motion
as you wallow in self-stillness turning the entropy machine
over and over in perpetual defeat.
There are beetles in the canopy of my fingers, sparrows
whose tiny claws prick the fabric of the stone pathway
and that's where seconds come from, and how "later" is made.
Now don't you almost want to ask them all your questions?
But "now" is too fragile to disrupt, filled as it is with a billion pinhole moments
like this one, or this, this, this, but made only so earthworms could notice
and remark upon the nature of the sky-ground above them
torn with its beautiful stars--
they are wounds bleeding memories out of forever.
On days like this, it's best to sit down and become Pygmalion
loving the statue of yourself, defying the singularity of You,
letting your infinite Them peek through the
sparrows' footprints and see eachotheryourselves as you
become wrapped in the loving immortality
of an earthworm noticing you through a star.
The low rumble you hear without ears is the heartbeat
of the world who is listening to yours. She will remember you
in shadows and the color of gloaming until always,
for you were born a memory half star-stuff and half legend which are the same
and so still only half of you.
What you do with the rest is no one's concern but yours,
but should you let it open for the Stranger to advise it, do this--
give yourself one doomy day
as a present, because it is your birthday, the birth of the you who is now,
and now, and now again, born and reborn into memory forever
every time you take a breath of air that once was water that once was blood
a hundred thousand sparrows ago pulsing through the veins
of a man or woman or earthworm who remembered you backwards
and that's how "Is" is made.
God is one of us now.