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I Stay, I Go


5th November 2002

9:20am: You're older than you've ever been.

And now you're even older.

And now you're even older.


And now you're even older.


And now for a joke...

knock knock

who's there?

interrupting vegetarian..

Interrupting vegeta....



No one ever laughs when I tell it.
Which makes it even funnier.
9:29am: It's a Rumi kind of day...
Earth-love, spirit love, any love
looks into that yonder, and whatever I try to say
explaining love is embarrassing!
Some commentary
clarifies, but with love silence is clearer.
A pen went scribbling along, but when it tried
to write love, it broke.
If you want to expound on love,
take your intellect out and let it lie down
in the mud.

When I think of the years he drank, the scars
on his chin, his thinning hair, his eye that still weeps
decades after the blow, my knees weaken with gratitude
for whatever kept him safe, whatever stopped
the glass from cracking and shearing something vital,
the fist from lowering, exploding an artery, pressing
the clot of blood toward the back of his brain.
Now, he sits calmly on the couch, reading,
refusing to wear the glasses I bought him,
holding the open book at arm's length from his chest.
Behind him the windows are smoky with mist
and the tile floor is pushing its night chill
up through the bare soles of his feet. I like to think
he survived in order to find me, in order
to arrive here, sober, tired from a long night
of tongues and hands and thighs, music
on the radio, coffee-- so he could look up and see me,
standing in the kitchen in his torn t-shirt,
the hem of it brushing my knees, but I know
it's only luck that brought him here, luck
and a love that had nothing to do with me,
except that this is what we sometimes get if we live
long enough, if we are patient with our lives.

~Dorianne Laux
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