A Neuron’s Mirror
I can feel life all around me,
from the stone’s nest to the breeze-blush,
from leaf to damp green slug,
vibrations from the lyre,
my son’s deepening laughter.
But then there are days
when I want a name
a presence to walk along with--
concrete, brand-named, crowd-approved
you know all the possible personalities,
all those consensual constructs—
see, I still struggle
to believe such things.
This wanting, though,
it’s not born of pure wakefulness,
more like catching a scent of something from childhood
and having only impressions of arms and safety.
Or finding a card from 1897, words of love
scratched in ink, but that is all.
More like an itch,
and all the yoga postures in the world
won’t make me flexible enough
to give it a good scratch.
And there is nothing of cowardice here,
buried in this longing,
to breathe with the divine in a human form--
maybe only a lonely brain cell,
short dendrites reaching
for some kind of a mirror.