by Stephen Harrod Buhner (1952 - 2022)
Two selves rise up inside us
and are forced apart. After awhile
we no longer notice the pain.
We become good children
and mouth the words we've
been taught. Sometimes the
ones who love axes give us a
job. We hate it but we keep
talking about the benefits.
When we dream, sometimes
we catch a glimpse of a tiny
green thing struggling up
ward through the dark
crack inside us.
Last night I dreamed some
thing new - a single
golden hair fell from the mouth
of the darkness that lurks in
the backyard where the
mower can't reach it.
It nestled itself against my
sleeping face all through the long
night. When I rose I disturbed the
room and a slight breeze fluttered
the hair to the floor where
the maid will dispose of it.
No matter. In the dark that
golden hair will come again
and again - all through
our sleeping lives. Maybe
one day the green thing that
struggles upward from the crack
and the golden hair will touch and
our two selves will find each
other again. Perhaps then we'll
move to a place where mowers
do not exist, where we notice the
loving eyes that watch us in the
darkness, where the words "I feel"
become important again.