Somehow, We Are a We
       

So many beautiful, manageable heads. If only we were
allowed a hundred different joys. What a radical idea. No
goodness will get you far. Your loveliness is measured
by the number of poor things you've dazzled. Add in
an old city ruin, and some translated light, which
is foreign and sounds cool, but cannot be understood.
Goodness is contrived. No one wants it. It's before
breakfast and already our hearts have gone bad.
Yesterday I watched two birds fight over the same
blue square of sky. The philosophers say if you take
something you don't love in your arms and unhurt it,
you will be happy. But we are not happy. Everything
electrical is not light. All over there are crowds
of people waiting to be caressed. Every bed in the world
was manufactured for just a few. We are magnolia
white, spoon light, leftover flight. We are spiny
and unforgivable. It is good to ache and be wise for it.
You come back in the door that I've walked out of.
It's ceremonial. It's revolving. The back of your beautiful
head. Your hands are here; I can't tell where, but it is
the best kind of uncertainty. Happiness is when everything
inside you goes out and comes back in, newly.

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Copyright © 2012 Kimberly Grey All rights reserved
from the Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission