Life feels chaotic lately. Some days we choose to disappear, wearing the cloak of ignorance. Some days, we are jolted awake, and can’t seem to put the misery of the World out of our heads. Some days, we pray for the rains. Some days there’s an outpouring of tears that refuses to stem. Some days, the light creeps in. Some days, the world sends us an invitation, again.
Miracle Removal by Kevin Young
i.m. Helen Hill
This world is rigged
with ruin.
Rain,
and its remains.
In the yard drought
fills the empty jars—
houses on stilts
still lean.
Sweet as revenge, the grass
devours the abandoned
dream house, unfinished kitchen
where cows now graze.
What angels
I would wrestle.
How we Disappear by Alessandra Olanow
I am in the store touching things.
Linen napkins, a blue bowl.
The world is on fire and I am choosing
between two kinds of soap.
Everyone here is doing this, filling carts
with small comforts while somewhere a child
goes to bed hungry, while the earth heats,
while men make decisions about who gets to live.
I know what this is, this careful arranging
while everything collapses.
This is how we survive.
And also how we disappear.
We Go About Our Days by Katia Engell
After Rachelle Sierra
despite all that, we worry we might never
feel free, not while awake, so wholly aware.
my therapist asks a question & I respond
in we; we are at an impasse, we don’t know
where to go, we furrow our foreheads, fold
upon fold. we worry. this world can hurt
our heaviest leaden days; eyes wet with awe,
hands holding other hands, and oh—our mouths,
our miraculous mouths for kissing & singing
& tasting, gorgeous brains spinning memory
down to our marrow where none of
us are free, unless we all are.
we ricochet, I tell her, our freedoms.
we ricochet, this whirling of assaults.
“Yes” by William Stafford
It could happen any time, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.
It could, you know. That’s why we wake
and look out – no guarantees
in this life.
But some bonuses, like morning,
like right now, like noon,
like evening.
Invitation by Mary Oliver
Oh do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy
and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles
for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,
or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong, blunt beaks
drink the air
as they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mine
and not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude—
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing
just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in the broken world.
I beg of you,
do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.
It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.
The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry
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