Who feels this way some days? Tired laced with sad and a side of headache?
Who gets your attention as tonight’s wind took mine, when the lights flickered and the whole house shook and the power sputtered and paused, making us wonder if we’d lose it for good or if the old pines all around out room would take the roof out and us under it?
Who wants a piece of cake? It’s baking now and who knows that feeling of wanting to eat the whole thing alone but in fact given the choice I’d rather tell you to pull up a chair and hand you a plate?
Who catches your reflection in the gusts? Who lights up at the prospect of prayer? Who out there finds that just plain weird? Who wonders about things like where the fox hides out in the storm? Who wants to sit here with me, reading poems in the dark?
Who needs to step away from words for a while, and who needs a bridge and who a rope and who a snack and who a miracle and who an unopened envelope and who to hold on a little tighter and who to let go a little sooner?
Who finds death a kind of caveat?
Who finds birth and broth and breasts and beating hearts to have so much in common?
Who gets way to hung up on technicalities and who gets off on them without a single fucking consequence?
Who writes the rhetoric and who tears it down and who cares if it’s good, just write, that’s right, that’s my gospel along with the secrets the rabbis kept and passed down through hidden groves of old-growth trees across the fields of so many centuries?
Who would like to take a stab at this riddle? You, there? You who always sit in the front row, you who sit behind that tall one in the back? I see you, you know. I’m calling on you first tonight. Pick a question and tell us your answer in a dream. We’ll be listening.