Pan Left

This Halloween I daydreamt of All Saints
All saints were nimbus and placid mouthed
Let me be someone else
Calm my itchy hands and away with this bellow
I was Quasimodo and railing in a tower
The bells I ring, the bells I ring
The bells that never ring for me
Zealous in their glorious timbre
They sounded, resounded, until
I opened my eyes to a desk, a chair
And a bellicose phone, which did not ring but chided
And there was no tower
How much fight is left in this Boleyn dream?
Pan left me in the space of a minute
Sighing, "Lord, what fools these mortals be"
I stirred, and was no angel, no nymph arising
No beautiful glitter-eyed lover
But an elbowy girl shaking dew from her hands
Disappointingly and irrevocably herself
On the day after Halloween
I left a novena in my mouth and tried to stay awake

In Which I Begin "Operation Suck Less."

That's what I'm calling it.
I've decided.

The title is practically the most important part, right?

I'm ready.

Suck less.


It's a three-fold mission, encompassing the following concepts:
Be honest, develop a spine, and take care of myself.
The idea is that those things that make me wail,
"Augh, why do I suck so much?"
Will no longer have a place setting at my table.

So, next time you ask me why I didn't call you,
I will say, "Because I got distracted by life!"
Instead of,
"Um, I dropped my phone into a sewage drain.
It's cool, though. I got it back this morning."

And next time you suggest we go to Hello Sushi
Even though you know I don't eat seafood
And the pop art and intense techno music give me heart palpitations,
I will say, "No! Let's have cereal for dinner."

Choice of Rivers

You died.

It was not as bad as it might have been.
There was crying, cursing, pleading,
Yes, but altogether, it was not graphic.
Your friend held your hand, and even when
You shuddered and sobbed, he didn't look away.
And then you died.

You were broken into thousands of pieces
And your more ethereal parts arose.
Somehow still achy, you floated down
Between two rivers.
And a raisin-skinned man received you
With smoke on his tongue,
Gestured to the rivers
And said, "We begin again. But first you choose.
Lethe or Mnemosyne?"

Lethe beckoned to you.
This river, she proffered toothsome forgetfulness.
She sang, but didn't stop at singing.
She hummed, rocked, swayed.
When you peered in to plumb her,
She gleamed back, inviting nothingness,
Charming satin, enveloping nothingness.

You turned to see the other river,
And Mnemosyne sneered.
Glowering from her bed,
She dared you to test her depths.
When you looked, you did not see
Attractive bubbles, gentle currents,
But instead saw your own reflection.

It was aflame with memory:
The sting of every wound,
The hiss of your breath outward,
Exit lover and colder hands on your shoulders.
Things you learned the hard way.
This was what she offered,
Stark and unrelenting.

You stood, then, on the bank between rivers
While the raisin-skinned man waited
And you did not know which water to drink.
Is it better, you thought, to try again and not know?
You looked to the papery old man
Hoping for some indication.
But he offered no advice, no testimony.

Lethe glimmered, promising you a fresh start.
She wound serenely, attractively,
As if to say, Choose me
And you can be someone new.
Sip and forget.

Mnemosyne was irritable.
She sloshed and steamed, and clearly her tide
Did not believe in sipping
You are not and will not be new, he heard.
But you will be as you are
And what you have suffered will stay with you.
Choose what you will.
Either way you will end up here again one day.

You recalled your life, and the gifts you had wished for,
The times you had prayed to the gods
To make you someone else.
This would be your chance to undress yourself
Of your old foibles and mistakes.

So you knelt at the side of Lethe
And sipped from your cupped hands the opalescent drought.
As promised, you felt nothing.
Nothingness, tumbling over emptiness,
Giving way to a vacuum, a drafty oubliette.

Missteps erased, you alit back on the earth.
You began anew, blissfully unaware of your past lives.
And you lived for a while, until you died.
It was not as bad as it might have been.

Achy from the loss of your body,
You floated down between two rivers.

On Having Grown Up

The appearance of loveliness wore off gradually.
It started with the faerie dust, which had to be swept
From crevices in the Wendy House.
The island in the clouds became a kitchen peninsula,
Fading into a grout and tile countertop.
She had known it would be a compromise,
But couldn't have guessed
How he would sulk when she did not want to fly,
Or how he'd become impatient when the illusion broke
And he came to understand
That calling himself Father didn't really make him one.
How he didn't want to come home.
Their lives more and more embodied Never-Never
And the boy she had married was a real person,
Who still dreamt of fighting pirates and Indians
But resigned, instead, to a mortgage.