Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Over ten years hence now I plumbed the depths
An oceanography of two motes entangled, dancing
I think I now see the trajectories clearly
One, up and out, a gravitational boost, escape
First in mind, then in spirit, then in body
One, drifting slowly aground, drawn downward
Looking for a place to land, add to Earth’s mass
Destined never to land, to settle in formation
Unable to soar together, for different reasons
Bound only briefly by circumstance, by time

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Unprecedented, they called it, freshman year, as we watched rising smoke with rapt intensity
Unprecedented, the word on everyone’s lips, the squeal of brakes on money gone mad
Unprecedented, and an upset to boot, they said again, as if dictating into a history book
Unprecedented, chained to the house while the world struggles to breathe
Unprecedented, both in number and scope, people spilling out in the streets
Unprecedented, that any of it could have been predicted if cooler heads had prevailed

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Grass, fresh-cut, by the neighbors
Birdsong sweet in the ear
Showers of seeds at the feeder
Sheltering boughs are near

A sky both warm and friendly
Birds on the wing flutter by
Flowers abuzz with activity
Light dapples as sunset is nigh

I watch it all from my window
Setting sun and ebbing of light
Feelings asleep are enkindled
As the new crops of spring arise

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To say we were impressed would be an understatement
It was a resume for the ages
Years of experience in a relevant field
A local, able to start immediately
Testimonials? Glowing, every one
Able to crunch vast fields of data
In a single Excel sheet
If we hadn’t seen them for ourselves
Their easy confidence palpable
Even over Zoom
We wouldn’t have believed it possible
We politely thanked the others
Rejection letters sent out
This mythical person was set to onboard
Until they sheepishly admitted
They’d been interviewing elsewhere
The whole time
And we were their second choice

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We humans like binaries
Black hat, white hat
Sinner or saint
It’s tough to process
That someone can be both
Oppressor
And
Oppressed
Victim
And
Victimizer
Deserving of justice
Dealt in judgment
But also of justice
Restorative

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Soil liquified under the deluge of three days
Grand old trees litter the landscape, top-heavy
Pulled down by the weight laid upon them
Ground to dust and leaving gaping holes
I really hope, against all hope
That they are not metaphors

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Amid the rains that have been unusually heavy this year
Blossoming forth from an invisible network beneath the yard
Decay personified, but dedicated to spreading new life
Its long red tubules rise, alien, seemingly spontaneous
I ought to be in awe of it, evolved to spread spores on the wings of flies
But looking at its limp red tubular shape
Reading the name on my naturalist app
I can’t help but giggle like a locker room teen
Is it just me
Or does its name
“The devil’s dipstick”
Sound like something
A prudish old woman
Would say, horrified
At the thought of a man

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The day dawned cloudy, stormy
Vivid patches of blue between angry, weeping clouds
Three hours later and it would have been invisible
But when the eclipse came, shedding the dappled light
Of an imperfectly covered celestial orb
(Because who has the time, money for eclipse tourism)
There was just enough cerulean, just enough light
That the neighborhood, looking skyward with glasses opaque
Could glimpse, fleetingly, through the clouds
A sliver of sunshine

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I went to the estate sale on a whim
Thinking I knew what I’d find
The detritus of old age, laid out
Pricetagged for your convenience
Wary strangers hauling away parts of a life
Shelves clogged with diet books
Gospel and Christmas music both vinyl and cassette
Bibles and commentaries, uncracked
I found all that but also
Stacks of violin bows, strings unstrung
Batons fit to conduct orchestras
The musicians waiting, sealed, in CDs
All the equipment for adding intertitles
To the 16mm home movies that lay about
Reel-to-reel tapes from a college radio station
Still in their original brown paper
I wonder if, when my time has come
And the estate salesmen crawl through the ashes
Price tagging a life after its close
If anyone will notice, lying there
The hundred tiny stories, now forever lost
For want of someone to tell them

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Roused today, early, on a weekend off
Wondering idly how long it’s been
Since I felt truly rested
Even after a long night’s sleep
Is it the weight of the years
Anxiety for the future
Or just rosy glasses looking back
On a youth just as sleepless
Just as anxious
Just as awake

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