what comes next

What comes next is not unknown. It is 
as clear as a clear sky day, sky like glass
blue like you can see through it and what lies
beyond, those blue green fields of cornflowers
a tree, a rainbow, an eternal outdoor
picnic like we dreamed to do on Sundays.
What Sunday-school picture books all say.

What comes next is not unknown. All told
from the pulpit, how the world will become
dust, like flesh into ash, the questions.
Only the living left bereft.

My papers are sent. The board to convene.
Meanwhile. 
I pretend not to pay attention 
to the arthritic bloom in my finger joints.

When I was younger and younger, 
palm to palm my fingers could mimic
the grace of a swimming fish's tail.
I could move one or both ears...

Such feat for a twelve year old!

What comes next is not unknown. 
I tell my dog we will see the vet on Sunday.
Meanwhile I recover from my own bout
with flu. The days are numbered.
What comes next is not unknown.

Only the heart is scared. Brave only by
closing its eyes. To leap into the known.

Friday Rain

...and I came home midnight 
after a long meeting and a few
rounds of drinks, in an attempt to
salvage the remains of Friday night.
The both of us laughed over rocks

in glasses, over cigarettes, a band
played in the background and we
watched the lead singer. Young
woman cooing in a husky voice,
wearing elbow length sleeves.

Nice voice, but a virgin. We laughed
swapping stories how we knew
early on it is something to rid of.
To become.
                   I arrived home,

dogs, lamp lights, shower. Three 
things: collage of photos she printed 
from our recent out-of-town trips together; 
a handmade bookmark between 
Szymborska by my bed; she, asleep...

Rain arrived at two in the morning,
seeping through my sleep. I awake
to let in the new dog at the front yard. 
It yelped and raced to shelter itself in.

The Word

Jimmy once so aptly said it:
Brothers and Sisters of the Word.
We all agreed: the Word, sacred.

Sometimes, I say:
Writing is the Word
made Flesh.

But it has been a long, long while:
do I still believe? the Story

is just that: a story.
Even though sometimes

the child, afraid, calls 
out in the unknown dark.