Eclipse

“Every day above ground
is an answered prayer to the god
of small consequences” — that is something

my father never said to me, but
I wish he had. I wish someone had.
It would have meant so much more

if I’d learned it
from someone
instead of having to learn it on my own. Of course,

that’s not what they tell you
when you finally get it:
they say it’s all about going through

the experience
in order to make it more meaningful.
“You wouldn’t have understood

or believed it if we’d told you.” Well,
screw that noise. Screw all the human noise.
It does no human child any good

to have that vague advice about the bright side slung at you
when you’re not looking
for it, if no one also grabs you by the scruff of the neck and

forces you to look at the darkened sun, saying,
“There will be days like this all your life, sport;
what looks bright will blacken, what seems clear

will become obscure. They’re going to tell you
it’s an omen for some awful shift, the planet rearranging,
diamonds crumbling to ash in your hand. Screw THAT noise.

It always comes back, it always continues, and even if you’re blinded
by the return, you’ll still be here. You’re going to be ok: that’s
a small consequence of the way this world is always reborn.”