2 Poems

Sometimes it’s enough to fill a notebook with my eyes,

            craft an inkless story, an act for a small circus.

Everything is in there: verbs, characters, a sideshow

            performance, a juggler’s cascade, breath.

One day, I accidentally trapezed my morning coffee,

            taken black, across the pages, which of course seeped.

Now parts of the notebook appear aged like a prop

            in a play that takes place long ago. Some pages adhered,

allowing me to skip over time. I considered starting anew,

            but decided stains don’t change the arc, and left it as is.

I’m aware that a blank notebook filled with pages no one

            can read might make someone feel sorry or worry

that I’ve erased myself. When the opposite is true. Even if

            I swear on sacred text that I’m happy, there are people

who’d want to add sickness or tragedy to this, the type who finds

            buffoons sad. There will always be those who don’t want

to live under the big top. My friend sent me a stack of red

            and white popcorn boxes embedded with torenia

seeds, which I planted. Clown flowers bloomed.

            My plan is to finish the story and bury the notebook.

My student and I read a story about a cowboy

who discards his poisoned horses into a river.

Even clouds rot in this wet time. River rises.

We learn of a moon phasing in reverse, boneless

fish, dirty remains, fire and remorse, and something

further downstream, unmoving. Who or what it is,

why it’s there, doesn’t seem to matter.

I am struck by how few questions she has.