To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

-- In Blackwater Woods, Mary Oliver




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The dieseled fields. The lava hardened into unlovable
craters. The buds on my raspberries covered in frost.
Idaho. Idaho. Look at yourself. Dotted with zealots.
Spotted with cows. Imagine what you look like
from outer space. Luckily this won’t be like leaving
a man. No scene. Nobody will be calling
anybody a whore. Not now. After harvests so
bountiful they saved entire dispirited towns.
How else to say it? It’s time. Maybe it’s related to
the ants I saw laboring away atop a puff
of marshmallow. Their determination quickly giving way
to sorrow. Their small lives, one by one, crying out
to be crushed. When I stomped on them, I thought:
I am doing my job. I’m doing it well. Then I asked:
Is this who you want to be? No. I wanted out
of the equation. I wanted away from those ants
and my own murderous foot. Okay. That wasn’t
the truth. I was traveling through Mexico
when I saw those ants. And they triggered in me
contemplations of poverty and sadness and all the
short-lived sweetnesses I have known. Everything I do
isn’t about me. It’s as if you can’t see that. It’s as if
you can’t see a lot of things. Maybe this will be
like leaving a man. Plopped down like a couch. And I’ve
had to live on you. Covered in crumbs. Look at
yourself. Plaid-covered and mustard stained. How could
anyone take more? Do not say that I’ve failed.
There is a polished gun in every room. I dream
of metal. I dream of the arrow piercing
the songbird’s heart. No. I’m not saying
that I’m the songbird. I’m saying that I can’t sleep.
Not on top of you. I didn’t want this to be
funny. I’m tired of making everyone laugh.
Idaho, look at me. I’m being serious. Your trick roads,
I’m done with them. The face they gave me.
What they’ve claimed as theirs. It’s no longer
beautiful, the sharp ways they fall. I am wood.
When I see them, nothing inside me curls. You think
you can haunt me? You think I feel the same
way about you? No. Everything has changed.
It had to. So, deer, shed your fur. Mate
recklessly behind the snapping trees. Throw
your brown bodies onto the road. I said I
was leaving. I said goodbye. I’m almost gone.
Watch me. Can’t you see what you’ve done
to me? Now. My hand is on the door.

-- Goodbye Idaho, Kristen Tracy


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Even after all this time
The sun never says to the earth,
“You owe Me.”

Look what happens with
A love like that,
It lights the Whole Sky.

- The Sun Never Says, Hafiz


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