bee lb

what hope for life

you ask for one and my heart offers many;

even here, in the depths of my inability to breathe,

to reach for life as it grasps my body;

the heart a beating thing, the life not mine to take.

there is a stretch of road at the tip of the world

where the only light to be seen is that of the stars.

there is a car that steers itself steady, straight, onward

and two pairs of eyes pressed against glass looking up,

up, up. the whole world spreads itself empty in front of me

and my lungs expand fully for the first time in recent memory.

the air is clear. my body unburdened. my mind alight with awe.

here, i am alive.

there is a half-rotting dock on the edge of the world

where the water offers itself up with a kiss for the sky.

the whole world sways with the force of love this scene holds;

the mountains blue as a storybook, the salt air stretching itself

taffy-thin around me, the endless line of great white beasts cresting

with wind, the awe of freedom buoying this moment to shore.

here, i am alive.

there is a patch of grass at the center of the world

where every small joy has found itself lost and waiting

to be picked up, to be held once again, to be rediscovered.

the trees line this patch in safety, in trust, and in sitting there

i become only and exactly all i could be.

here, i am alive.

heavy

after Hieu Minh Nguyen

if a body is what’s necessary to attend the world,

i would like to be given the option to opt-out.

i would like to sit bodiless and perfect, to watch

those who wish to attend the world. i would like instead

to attend the green lake that refuses reflection,

that sits so close i could touch and so far i could never

hope to reach. i would like to attend the curve of swan’s

neck, to press flat the ruffled feathers, to dip under

the water in search of something wonderful.

there is a version of me some decades ago who is blissful

and unaware. i would like to attend them. i would like to sit

in their perfect round body and squish their perfect round

cheeks and tell them, quietly, to stay away from all glass,

all reflection, all search for perfection.

i would like to move their small hands across their small face

and tell them, hushed, that touch is all that will ever matter.

and if they find perfection without sight, following only

the trail of their hands, they might grow into a body

waiting and more than willing to attend the world.