MENAGERIE

Here is a poem I wrote after sleeping with someone early on that I loved. (Since time is our illusion, still love.) It was one of those magical nights that is a miracle, when our bodies meld with the animals in the dream. When the giraffe and the hyena not only co-existed, but are intimate friends. Where our most angry and our most gentle of selves finally understand, forgive, and at long last, make love.

MENAGERIE

One morning you awaken too early and the animals are there sleeping peacefully
all around you. The hyena. The giraffe with his head cocked petulantly
on the lap of the hyena. And you wonder if they've been here all of your life,
dozing in the wake of a thousand moons, a thousand crimes
that you didn't have stomach enough to commit --

although it would mean this, this miracle among the souls of animals.
And you. You with sheen before your eyes that so blinds you from their fine-ness.
Finesse, they say, is a matter of competence

without ego. Hold me like flowers in the moon,
says the giraffe. You're not sure whether he's speaking to the hyena or to you
so you pretend not to hear him. This pretense goes on and on for years

until you have convinced yourself that the giraffe and the hyena
are not really there at all. Your denial is so complete
it is like an announcement to the world.

You're a woman.
But one night you hear the man inside of you say,
Phfaww! Action. Action is the only thing of any consequence!
It is the first voice in all the world, and it breaks the eggshell
of quiet. The sound shatters the sheen from your eyes
with astonishing effortlessness.

You know he's been saying this all of your life.
And like a knee-jerk, you've been answering.

Suddenly there is a giraffe weeping like a flower in the moon.
You gather the giraffe like a bouquet of your own neglect. And you rock it.
You rock it .