Conundrum

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I’ve yet to find a place for you.

At first I threw you on my bed

and almost forgot about you

until I found you lying there the next day

with morning all over your face.

You smelled like mint

and I would have left you on the pillow for an evening snack

but you grew too large

taking root into my thoughts.

I then moved you into my heart

and I was going to plant you there

and water you every morning with good thoughts

and on days with ardor and dry throats

twice a day,

but you turned a hungry face towards the sun

and left me looking at your stem. 

I might have to put you back in the garden -

the soil of my heart has too few minerals to spare.

Who taught you?

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Who taught you?

Who took your hand and walked you through the rooms of your life?

Who showed you the way to organize

the knives in your kitchen,

to hide their blades in wooden boxes?

Who taught you how to kill the fruit flies?

Who gave you your tour of your bedroom

and taught you how to organize your body on the bed

and how to store the shadows of visiting bodies,

stacked smoothly and facing down

so they won’t prick you when you sleep?

Who sat you down on the couch in your living room

and walked you through the words to choose

and the look to use

when you say “I want” and “I need” and “I love”?

Who showed you how to kill the ugly thoughts?

Who opened the door to your study

and sorted the books on your desk,

stacked in small stacks

so they won’t crush you under their weight?

Who taught you all of this while I waited on my bed

and no one opened my doors,

and no one took my hand,

and no one showed me where to keep my knives?

Giving [Up] Giving

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When you give more than you have

you end up homeless,

stitching together dish rags

into a tupek

while your Amazon boxes

make a cardboard home.

 

When you give more than you can

you end up listless,

watching black ants crisscrossing

your numb sleeping arm

or the cat licking your face

and coughing up wants.

 

When you give more than you should

you end up hopeless,

draining love into a bag

through a plastic tube,

too weak to wrap it with bows -

gift for garbage men.

 

When you give all that you are

you become heartless.

May no one cross your path then.