FAILED EXISTENTIALIST IN A FIELD OF FIREFLIES

A blizzard of absurd low stars,

or searchlights

on a far shore,

this dance of tiny fires

draws me

in. I watch

within the larger darkness,

these flares ignite—

this green flurry

a bright show

of force

against a black sea;

they surface, disappear

and surface again.

From what flames do these

rise, these embers

flashing over me.

How can I,

who've outlived God, survive

this sudden desire to pray?

GREEN STEPHANIA

A full wood, wet bark

shower, the fresh drenched

trees, the leaves lush heavy,

so consequently, Stephania.

Stephania, curled finger ferns

unfurl and burst. Loose spores

string through mist and nestle.

Moss tufts rub.

Rain slapped leaves, Stephania,

spring and drip on our deep

sogged glade, our soaked sunk roots.

Me and Stephania.

In a hiding place our slick lips sore

from pressing together.

Stephania, seaweed breath,

burrs in your tangling curls,

soiled nails and knees, giggling.

Eden, Stephania. The smell of dirt.

I never want to leave the world.

Through the streaming wash

of rain, through the windows

and pale curtains, our mothers ache.

Their bedrooms flicker with blue TV.

Scent of biscuits, chimney smoke, tea.

Our fathers cup their hands

against the cold glass panes

and look out.

It's dusk, Stephania.

No one knows where we are.

HAPPINESS

Happiness, that fatted calf, hangs

from the ceiling by a thread. Silly-eyed

and frilly, the piñata teases, swaying

like a plump ballerina above the birthday

party guests. When the blindfold goes on,

when laughter and light disappear,

I'm told to thrash the high darkness

until I hit it. Look at me: the village idiot

shaking my fist at the night sky, taking

jabs at its flank, hoping to stab the elusive

cloud, to start a shimmering candy river

for all the thirsty villagers below.

I know they watch from behind the windows

of their dark homes, dreaming the red gold rain.

We each want a taste of it, thirst for it, want it

to fall in our hair, to bounce from our palms,

to get on our knees and thrust our fists

into its shattered rainbow shards.

We won't stop until the last sun-flaked drop

spills, until every piece of joy's flash flood

is gone. And when it's done, when we're all

singing over short candles, slurping blood-red juice

from our thumbs, playing with our new toys—

after the lucky kid fishes one last piece

from the sea of wrappers, we'll be sure

not to look up—where that gutted cardboard carcass

arcs like a hung God, dragging like a sharp

pendulum over our heads, a drained slab on a hook,

a reminder of the dry season, of need and loss

and the empty hours we've all long forgotten.