Nineteen-thirty-six: I hurried as always
but was late. Eight centuries
or ten thousand years,
my small story fixed to my back.
Food came weighed and wrapped,
shelter engorged, surplus.
My own, my own, my own
was a mantra I could sing
in any season.
I could be who I was
and also anyone else.
I was late and also much too early.
I came to justice
before its time.
Unprepared to receive me,
its rough grasp hurt my hand,
embedded its promises in my flesh.
Juggling gender
I was early and also late.
Juggling children, service,
my explosion of words
on stone, parchment,
or floating cyber cloud.
Only poetry and love met me
where we laughed.
After so many false starts
they came in whole and sure
before the finish line.
My hand fit the ancient print,
a radius of living settled
on my shoulders.
I am lunar standstill now,
calendar of hope.
It is 2013, and I discover
I am perfectly on time.
Soon I will disappear
together with all my kind,
and the earth
with its synchronized clock
will wake some green-blue morning,
its rhythms safe at last.
April 08, 2013