by Donna J. Long

So you were born
short, stout, wingless,
someone for whom fight
or flight was canceled
by a genetic cog
whose wheel was yet
to be invented.  Looking
for your likeness you
learned to pray, to praise,
even to name promised
too little.  In one fit
of survivor’s guilt you
spent hours grazing
shelves, resolved to
revise your own field
guide, to lay blame
when the kildeer’s cry
failed to thin the herd.  You began
to take in strays for a night’s
pleasure to spite the ache
of your self-centering.  You,
who longed to live in a gentle
wood but lacked bamboo’s
energy, desired an unruly
garden but managed in-
stead to invent the fence.

by normal

the telephone book of history opened &
closed &

SLAMMED
SLAMMED
SLAMMED

you were one up
in a world of diminishing returns
& life steamed from the sweat
on your skin.

i took my shift on the
hospital ward that night,
where the sounds of the dying
battled for front stage center
with the shrill sounds of the
17 year cicadas

& for 24 hrs black
ceased to be the color
of mourning &

death
was such a little man
with so much work
left to do.

by normal

god has big eyes &
he puts them in the mouths
of little children &
you can do what you will
with a child, but
one way or
another
what you will
will come back to speak
to you
when you are old
when your hands are
arthritic
when your knees
buckle
when your mind is
growing thin, (oh yes)
that tiny voice
will speak &
speak &
speak

by normal

“where there are humans
          you’ll find flies,
          and buddhas”
                    — issa

i was fresh from the street
i met a poet
i wrote buddhist with many words
he wrote with few
i said many things
i said nothing
he said very little
he said all
i said
“words are the poets
tool”
he said
“words are the enemy
of the poet”
lao said
“true words are not
beautiful, beautiful
words are not true”
we stared at each
other in noisy calm
chiang she ch’uan said
“a reflection
appears on the water,
then is gone”
many flies
many buddhas
nothing
all