Why must the boys always frighten

the pigeons away?

 

Why must the smiling tourists always request

a photo overlooking the Sound, a

pulse away from the Native men, homeless

by the water’s edge? I am thrown

back through the years, a lifetime

spent in two weeks

with the carver, reducing me

to cedar shavings on the unswept floor.

Why do I eat French pastry and drink

strong coffee, only to feel as though I might

throw up the entire contents of

my heart?

Knowing

how it is lost, that sense of

Life as Truth, when I avoided

his eyes, anticipating the pain

they would inflict as they left

my sight, inaccessible.

So I took the broom and weakly

swept the house we vowed

to make ours, his efforts so small

and inconsistent.

Why can I not fall asleep on the grass

and awake speechless, inconceivably empty,

needing only to be alone?

Why must it always be all or nothing

for me, all sense of life lost before it

becomes comprehensible?

 

Why must the boys always frighten

the pigeons away?