Яна Кане - Зимородок

If it were not for the blade of grass

Pushing apart the flagstones

Of my garden path.

“I wish” – a seed falls to the ground.

Not much chance

That it will land on fertile soil,

Find water, reach sunlight.

The substance of reality is hard.

It is mostly rocks:

“Impossible”, “Forbidden”, “Or else”.

It is riddled with petrified bones:

“I regret”, “I never”, “I always”.

It is swarming with voracious mouths:

“I should”, “I promised”, “I must”.

“I wish” – a seed falls to the ground.

Not much chance,

But a chance nonetheless.

May it take root: “I am”,

May it send up a shoot: “I will”.

Cat.

Feral black cat.

No name that I know of,

No name that I would presume to bestow.

For ten years I have addressed him

By his title:

“Cat”.

Sometimes he comes by for a leisurely visit.

He meows, I sing-song: “kitty-cat”.

His four paws step delicately in a single line,

The tail flicks my knees.

As I stroke his slick arched back,

He weaves infinity signs

Around and around my ankles —

A hypnotic ritual of joy.

Sometimes he shows up

Skittish, bristling,

Not wishing to be touched.

He eats the offered food quickly,

Silently melts into the night,

Black into black.

Sometimes he meets me

As I am taking a walk in the evening:

Emerges from the cover of a bush,

Follows me to my house,

Flickering as he passes through the shadows.

Sometimes he appears on my porch

Night after night, for a week.

Sometimes he is gone for a month or more.

I fret, walk around the neighborhood,

Pausing by every promising bush,

Calling him, knowing it is in vain.

His comings and goings are not predictable,

Are not governed by my concerns.

It would be a human conceit

To imagine that the cat intends

To teach me non-attachment.

But I learn, nonetheless.

In the supermarket,

I pack seven cans of “seafood dinner” into my bag.

The purchase is an act of hope.

I have not seen him in weeks.

The cashier asks with genuine interest:

“What kind of cat do you have?”

“I do not have a cat.”

Responding to her unspoken question,

I add, wistfully:

“This is for a friend.”

She stares, perturbed.

I wade deeper into the truth:

“My friend is a cat.”

The early bird gets the worm.

The early worm gets a one-way ticket

For a trip down the bird’s intestines.

Therefore, seek self-knowledge.

If you are a bird,

Do not feather your bed overmuch.

If you are a worm,

Do not delude yourself into expecting

That your wings will be sprouting any day now.

Instead, dig deep

And stay away from alarm clocks.

River Lethe,

Your name

Flows from the distant myth,

Stealthily seeps

Into the language

Of the here and now,

Glimmers

In the shadowy words:

Letheon, lethal, lethargic.

Your luminous waters

Wash away

All loss,

All longing.

Your silver whirlpools

Sweep away

All burdens,

All bonds.

It is not yet my time.

I walk on solid ground,

Though my feet

Sense the soft path

Sloping down to your shore.

I do not quench my thirst,

Though I know the taste

Of each syllable

Of your name.

River Lethe,

River Lethe,

River Lethe.

I love this child of mine

Like no other.

I remember

This one rising,

Striving, passing

Like no other.

My wounds still fester,

I still burn with fever,

Convulse and shudder

With the aftershocks.

I am still haunted

By the bitter end

To all the building,

Worshipping, contending,

To all the restless seeking…

The bitter, self-inflicted end.

This child of mine

Was not content

To live day after day,

To let the seasons

Revolve without change,

To let each generation

Pass through life

From start to finish.

This child strove

To subdue the flow of time,

To master life,

To conquer death,

To slip out of my embrace.

To this child any bond

Was bondage.

But still I love,

Remember,

Long for

This one child of mine

Who was like no other.

I keep the imprints

Of the footsteps

Pressed into my clay,

The bones fused with my stone.

The soaring, crumbling towers

Reach for the sky.

The rusting bridges

Sway across the chasms.

The words still sing:

Praise,

Lamentation,

Knowledge,

Love,

Despair…

The words still sing,

Though there is no longer

A voice to give them sound,

An ear to hear and comprehend.

The words still sing

On the singed, moldering pages,

Even as all that was created

By this child,

My child,

The human,

Returns to dust.

This pine tree does not end

At the tips of its needles.

Its shade soothes wilted grass.

Its seeds feed a squirrel

And a family of grosbeaks.

Its progeny can be found

As far as the next ridge.

Its sap sticks to my fingers,

Holding my words together.

Silent waters are swiftly rising,

Engulfing dead leaves and last year’s grasses,

Deepening

Under the rippling lace

Of the inverted bare trees,

Darkening under the bright reflections

Of white clouds in the April sky.

This flood of longing

Is unlike all the upheavals

That I remember:

The scorching dust-devils of desire,

Despair’s armor of hard black ice.

Back then

I retreated,

Hid in my house,

Shuttered the windows.

Now, enchanted, oblivious to danger

I draw closer, closer

To the water’s edge.

How tenacious

Are the roots of memory!

Their grip endures

Long after the tree is gone.

In my dreams,

I still turn to you,

The way a blind woman

Turns her face towards the sun.

You were wrong.

There is no God

Outside of how we treat each other.

Lusting to carve your names

Onto eternity's tablets,

You darkened the sky with a symbol

Written in blood and in ashes.

Its meaning could not withstand

The flood of tears.

It was undone

By the first shuddering sob.

Driving rain, thick fog.

Skyscrapers have lost their heads.

New Yorkers press on.

A steady stream of umbrellas.

Some shelter couples.

A few are bobbing, jostled

By a laughing company of friends.

Most are held

By people walking alone,

Hurrying domes of silence.

The smoothness of the lake is marred by wrinkles