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Days 3 and 4
"The Unfinished Meal" was mostly all right, though Peregrine was right: the mixed metaphors are doing me no favors here. I think the image of a tiny man mining giant bits of word-food was planted by Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs. Yes, the movie actually is that weird. Despite that, I actually kind of liked the poem at first glance, and I'll definitely come back to it to see if I can tighten the writing.
For K.W.
I remember the nights in the dorm computer rooms
where you climbed up on my shoulders to hug me,
sure as clockwork, just as I always popped up to say
I didn't want to be there.
I remember the drive from the airport,
and part of my tooth dropping into a TV dinner,
calling you to panic, to have you tell me to call a dentist.
I remember sleeping with your arms around me.
The little box where you keep your writings from college
and earlier; even then you wrote about the extraordinary bonds
of ordinary people. It was clear that you didn't care
about the internal world. Out there was more important.
And it still is. How many times have you told me to step out,
to call someone, to talk when I would rather shut down?
How many times have you told me to remember, to imagine,
to stretch myself beyond the comforts of my own skin?
I remember all of the times where it felt like you were my only friend.
I know this is belated, but I love you back:
even when you embarrass me and make me thank you for it,
even when you make me confront the things I'm afraid of.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
I'm just saying, Now is a good time to be a rabbit.
It's always a good time to be one, true,
but now is especially great. You're not just cute,
but an omen, a symbol of spring, of life,
of the persistence of renewal in the face of sterility.
It's the one time we can celebrate the messiness
of lives, how untidy we keep our runs, how wild
our trails can be, how we always want to but never do.
We are survivalists of the highest order.
No one can say we aren't.
The other three hundred and sixty-four days
call us stupid, or weak, or boring: that's fine
if you don't see anything we don't want to show you.
But today, of all days, hear me when I tell you
that I am a rabbit, and despite these shortcomings
I am still here.
For K.W.
I remember the nights in the dorm computer rooms
where you climbed up on my shoulders to hug me,
sure as clockwork, just as I always popped up to say
I didn't want to be there.
I remember the drive from the airport,
and part of my tooth dropping into a TV dinner,
calling you to panic, to have you tell me to call a dentist.
I remember sleeping with your arms around me.
The little box where you keep your writings from college
and earlier; even then you wrote about the extraordinary bonds
of ordinary people. It was clear that you didn't care
about the internal world. Out there was more important.
And it still is. How many times have you told me to step out,
to call someone, to talk when I would rather shut down?
How many times have you told me to remember, to imagine,
to stretch myself beyond the comforts of my own skin?
I remember all of the times where it felt like you were my only friend.
I know this is belated, but I love you back:
even when you embarrass me and make me thank you for it,
even when you make me confront the things I'm afraid of.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
I'm just saying, Now is a good time to be a rabbit.
It's always a good time to be one, true,
but now is especially great. You're not just cute,
but an omen, a symbol of spring, of life,
of the persistence of renewal in the face of sterility.
It's the one time we can celebrate the messiness
of lives, how untidy we keep our runs, how wild
our trails can be, how we always want to but never do.
We are survivalists of the highest order.
No one can say we aren't.
The other three hundred and sixty-four days
call us stupid, or weak, or boring: that's fine
if you don't see anything we don't want to show you.
But today, of all days, hear me when I tell you
that I am a rabbit, and despite these shortcomings
I am still here.