The Undeserving

Because I was not loved, I became clever--

And because I was not touched, I became a spirit.



When I was ten,

I dreamt that it was snowing on the beach.

I was wearing my favorite heavy green coat,

And both the sky and the half-frozen breakers were gray.

I walked straight into the ocean,

And everything that has happened since

Is only what might have been.



I live inside a bolt--

I am the quiet at its center as it searches, always, for the earth.

Are you a woman of the earth?

Are you a lady of the autumn garden, the full table, the fresh loaf and knife?

It doesn't matter.

There is always another storm, and I am sister to the ion, the ozone, the bright strike.



Still, I wish I could deceive you into loving me--

I wish I could curl into cradle wood and feel your hand there rocking this strange sea-child in the midnight.



My wishes are so simple, and so ridiculous.



Shamed, I tell my invented tales to the wind,

Hide in the heart of my bolt,

And stand just beyond the spirit jars in your darkened yard,

A shade,

A thing that is, but never was,

Longing,

Iridescent,

Finally dissolving in the dawn before the hard-practical sunny cruelty

Of what is.

_________