Anne

I don’t know you,

but I’ve read your diary.

I picked it up

at eleven years old–

four years younger

than you.

 

I don’t know you,

not really.

I know about you,

your likes and dislikes,

your family and friends,

the place you lived,

your words,

but a person is more.

You left this world

long before I came to it

with millions of others

killed by hate,

just like you.

 

I sat in an empty classroom

devouring the words you left.

Abruptly,

the words ran out.

I don’t know you,

but I’ve mourned you.

 

I’m older than you now

filled more diaries

than you ever will.

I’m still as confused

by your loss

as I was then.

The world should be better

should be kinder.

I don’t know you,

but I know this:

You should have lived.

The Order of Things

Patterns show up everywhere

Like electrons orbiting protons and neutrons

that form moons

orbiting planets

orbiting stars.

Like plants

producing

mathematically perfect spirals.

Like the rhythm of songs

the variations of sound waves

the walk of birds

(Utahraptors walked like chickens

my yard is full

of feathered dinosaurs).

Like my family

calling me by my brother’s name

even when he’s in a different state

and I’m in a skirt.

Like the structure of stories

told again and again

in different skins.

Like the rhythm of rainfall.

 

There’s a comfort to that.

Everything has a design,

a pattern,

though it may not be obvious

to human eyes.

Icarus

Icarus  flew

too close to the sun, and

fell,

A stream of

melted wax

breaking wings

a father’s love.

Did someone,

one of Poseidon’s people,

anyone,

find him?

Did they wonder

at all the things

around him?

The story doesn’t say.

Icarus

was a boy.

They turned him

to a lesson.

They forget–

Icarus flew.

Icarus flew.

It’s more

than most can claim.

A touch of poetry

I’m six years old.

I spin around

and around

under a light fixture,

looking

at how the glass

makes  the light dance.

An adult says,

“Get out of the way.”

I don’t have words to ask

why they haven’t taken a moment

to look where I’m looking.

*

I’m thirteen years old.

I’ll tell anyone

even if they aren’t listening

all about

Scorpio and Orion

Perseus

The Pleiades

and every star I have a name for.

All the stories

that shape the world

because

they shape how we perceive it.

Is anyone listening?

I can’t tell.

*

I’m nineteen years old.

My little brother’s convertible

yanks itself down the highway

top down.

I’m in the back seat.

Warm summer air

pushes

on my face and arms

tugs at my hair.

I’m happier and calmer than I’ve ever been.

I’m still smiling

after the ride’s done

for a while.

*

Is there a point

to the tale?

Does there need to be?

This is what I remember.

This is what made me

me.