The Boy Who Held On
Death to identity! life says to us:
each of us is the other, goodbye
to one body in order to enter another!
I wish I could remember the boy
who played touch football
who went out for a long pass
slipped and fell on his back
and the ball landed on his chest
as others laughed at the indignity
but he with the joy of holding on
and the girl in the coral dress
whose eyes tore holes in the world.
I wish I could recall how rain stung
in November wind with darkness
rushing in, how cars swooshed
through wet streets and the air
tasted bitter and salty and sweet
as they ran soaked and laughing
back into the ticking realm of time.
So many selves peeled away, skins
left to rot by cans in the alleyways.
I wish all bodies could return, even
if it meant the ache of light and weight
and habitual noise of grinding minds
eating away at their limestone selves.
If you have any comments on this poem,
would be pleased to hear from you.