I see you standing there. I read your back and see the softened slump about your shoulders.
I hear your sigh that carries just above the shush of the Pacific, not quite a keen, but not a thing like laughter. What is it you look for? Have you been waiting for so very long?
May I tell you something? Once I saw two boys barehanded fishing for tilapia in Kauai’s Hule’ia River. Frozen still in the shadows of the mangrove, they cupped their hands and waited. Shhhh, they warned and I froze too, midstep on the hiking path. All at once, like athletes on a pedestal, they raised their arms victoriously overhead and one wriggling fish flung droplets into the sky.
“Dinner!” they shrieked.
That night I dreamt I stood in the shallows of Hule’ia, hands submerged into murky water. I could not see clearly, unsure exactly what I was trying to catch. I dreamt a cold plump softness nudging my open palms. One, two – too many sleek and slippery things to count – I grasped and missed, until at dawn I awoke empty-handed, staring blankly at the wall.
Is it like that now for you?
My friend wonders about her mounting “…sense of exhaustion and ambivalence…”
My students say, “This week is awful. It’s limp broccoli.”
It seems everyone around me is feeling…
This is not a new book; it was published in 2009. But it’s a new discovery for me and I highly recommend any book that contains poems with titles like, “At the Back of a Closet, Two Dresses Converse” and “Chant of the Hallucinogenic Plants,” especially as an antidote if you’re in your blues period. There’s no expiration date on golden poetry.