If I had died
younger — say, in 1977
as I once thought I would;

on the 19th of December
as I once was sure I would;
at 7:19 in the evening

as a hard, solid dream at 13
convinced me I would,
then all this that has happened since

would not have been, at least not for me,
and maybe not for anyone else
either. Maybe if that premonition 

which haunted my teenage years
had been correct and unassailable in its truth
(even if no one had ever known of it

but me) then perhaps this deadly current world
and all its mad brinksmanship would have been
avoided — not because I was or am

central to the universe’s design
but because I hope this is even now
another figment of a fevered imagination,

and when I pass no one else but me
will ever have in fact been hurt
by the horror I see around me now.

I do not recall waking up on the morning
of December 20, 1977. I would have been
freshly home from college and likely in shock

that I’d woken up at all. I’ve barely slept
since then: that much I do know. Every day
has been a sad mix of betrayal and resignation

to daylight. I distrust it, I should not 
be seeing it; perhaps I am not seeing it
but am only looking back on it

from the next life, the next world, 
or maybe I’m still having
the same damn death dream

and in the true world of the living
this is fine. Somewhere there
on a perfect winter day

they’ve mourned me enough
to have moved on by now,
to barely recall me and thus,

everything is fine.

Somewhere
nearby — mockingbird!
Police siren hedge clipper
low whistle meow bird 
though unseen well heard 

Even black cat and calico
pick their heads up
out of sleep
and seek the source
Even the starlings 
shut up and sit still

Feeders are full
but no one’s eating until
we all figure it out 

Police siren low coo
car door closing and 
meow again then

no more

The starlings start
their bickering again
and the cats
go back to sleep

Edging closer
to a border
than you thought
you would or could.

Fear inside
rising slowly
about how it 
might be necessary
or even exciting
to make this move
you swore you could
never make.

That is no
promised land
on the other side,
and you know it.

Yet you are standing
closer to the border
than you ever have
looking toward
the grey-green of
those far hills.

You imagine one day
having gained
enough comfort
to go trekking
carefree through those hills
with a basket
of good cheese
and bread, perhaps 
wine for the end
of the journey.

You take a step
not over,
but toward. 

Daylight tinged
with dusk sliding 
up and over 

Accustomed birds
beginning 
to disappear

All day
I have fought a roiling and 
a burning within

The end of the sun
is a relief
Night will be a balm

unless this continues
through dreams
and emerges at dawn

to drag me into
another day
of wrath and confusion

Although the calls
of my neighbor birds
would normally calm me

I will not lay the burden
of easing me through this
upon them

Instead I will sleep until
the pain has stopped
or at least until

I can stop it myself 
day or night
unassisted and in silence

Unseen bird thumping
against glass
then flying away
unhurt 

Bursts of clacking
as downy woodpeckers
hammer their beaks
into bricks of seed

Fanfare of chirps
and wings flapping as
next door’s hunting cat
charges and fails as always

then inevitably
the sound of them
all returning together
immediately 

and that damned squirrel
at it again — probing
the cages to see what
could be gained there

They say you should
take your feeders down
in summer or never put them
up at all but truly

I would be lost and crazy
if I did as this is how
I make myself want 
to look outside

at something other than
the red black backs
of my eyelids shut tightly
against anything but myself

My legacy
will not be one
of honor and fame,
I know. No 
easy rest for me
in the knowledge of
a lasting memory
what I’ve done.
I suspect instead
that there will be
for only a few years
a flurry of 
brief, vague 
comments upon
who I was
and what I
left behind
and then
the forgetting
will begin
and that
will be all,
will have to be 
satisfactory. 
I’m practicing
for it now: blending
into the curtains
drawn across
the windows
that look out upon
the bright bright
world. Soon enough
I’ll be pulled back
so people can see
how it shines.
Maybe a few 
will learn to love
what I left behind:
tales of how
to take shelter
in the dark
that inevitably follows
the dimming
of the day.

stop 
playing musical chairs
with people who are told beforehand
when the music will stop so they are
always ahead of you in getting to
a seat. 

stop
playing double dutch
with people who can tie a noose
in the rope and catch you by the neck
in mid-air before you
touch down.

stop 
pretending life 
is no longer grade school. 
it will always be
battleground recess, 
every day. 

stop
thinking that bully and bullied
isn’t the name of the big game
we start playing early
and are made to play until
very late.

you
have choices. pick a side
or walk away. play the role
written for you or 
write another game for yourself
to play. but

whatever
you choose, stop pretending
the streetlights are not yet on
and it is not time to come in
from the dark before it gets too dark
to win.

If I am chosen
or doomed to this

then let me be it
fully

Let me make and sling
the necessary fists

for those who will not raise their own
to strike back at their tormentors

Let me roil the rising water
with my anger

for those committed to calm
when there is truly none to be had

Let me walk ahead 
of those willing to be slain

despite their calls for peace
and let me bring the sword they will not carry

Let me long for a different fate
even as I fulfill the one I’ve been given

Let me go wrongly 
among the righteous as they cannot

Let me die if I must
doing what others cannot or will not

and if I must die that way
let it be said of me

that balance was my only aim
and while I was willing I was not joyous

in the role I was assigned
I longed for an easy life and death

but it was not for me
Nothing of it was for me

Overcome today with the understanding
that if there is a meaning to the universe
I’m merely a period closing one routine
sentence in the owner’s manual,

and if I’d been left out from the beginning
the meaning would still be clear from context.
My absence would mean nothing at all
except to the most nitpicky readers.

I am not absent
but I am minuscule in comparison
to the broad sweep of the text.
It’s a comforting thought. Nothing

depends on me, you say? No more
than on anything else? That’s 
a cold lick of freedom indeed, 
and as I fade into the invisible background

I’m thinking less and less, 
feeling more and more, and 
more or less invigorated by this,
I turn toward the light with a smile.