monasticism
after Thomas Merton

 
I may be pardoned for using my own words
to talk about my own soul, I may be emboldened
to say the only words that feel true. I may be
allowed this small garden with a chair where
I can sit, this window room, this cup, this bowl. 
I may be given what is mine, I may be alive while
I am, as the bare flight of time catches my gaze
across the sky. I may stop my walking to hold
the horizon in a loose fist, I may accompany my
dog on the same route each noon, listening to 
podcasts or nothing, the windy days. I may read
books, the ones I wish to read, this tree. I may be
pardoned, or I may not. either way, I’ll say
what I can, from my own cloistered place
owning nothing but what I see and my own
body full of air. 

workout

each poem like a game, like a 
stone I imagine then throw, new
forms for my body to take, new
shapes for my mouth to find, and I
need other people in the room, need
to fill the negative space, need to be
a mirror, a pattern, one who asks
questions or walks from one corner
to another, I need someone, please, 
to cradle the weight of my head 
because that is where the poem
lives, each poem a doorway to 
walk through then stand still and
look, each poem five sentences, each
poem a pile of pillows or a washcloth,
something someone said and where
we were, each poem a net that takes
four people to toss, each poem a 
song comprised of questions and
sung atop a picnic table while everyone
sits in the grass and watches and one by
one we weep and call it weather.