Bright Dead Things

Say we never get to see it: bright
future, stuck like a bum star, never
coming close, never dazzling.

we’re small and
flawed, but I want to be
who I am, going where
I’m going, all over again.

I want to be something entirely without words.

Oh let us be
a bird flying wholly for the sake
of flying

I’d choose the moon, always the sister moon.

Cold, comely queen of the sky.

It’s been a long time

since I’ve wanted to die,

it makes me feel

like taking off

my skin suit

and seeing how

my light flies all

on its own

Say you’d still want this: us alive,
right here, feeling lucky.

I still want to point out the heron like I was taught,
still want to slow the car down to see the thing
that makes it all better, the invisible gift, what
we see when we stare long enough into nothing.

I’d like to wear an apron for you
and come over with non-church sanctioned
knee-highs and the prettiest pie of birds
and ocean water and grief

And it didn’t matter
what was beyond us, or what came before us,
or what town we lived in, or where the money came from,
or what new night might leave us hungry and reeling,
we were simply going forward, riotous and windswept,
and all too willing to be struck by something shining
and mad, and so furiously hot it could kill us.