i. Birthmarks are Nature's Tattoos
He has three letters
tattooed on his wrist that spelled
her name. And sometimes
it spelled a sad word
when he didn't love her.
ii. Whose Name Means Thirsty For Blood
There was this poet I once knew who wrote one haiku for every year he lived. He began the eve of his thirteenth birthday when the moon was cut in half. He wrote about the other half - broken and shattered yet floating freely in the lake.
And he asked me: Would you rather be whole like everyone else, or would you rather be broken but free?
iii. A Broken Haiku
i love you
in all the ways
the golden sun
a daying rose
This is for the darkest nights,
the uprooted oak,
the restless dust.
This is for the tangled police lines in the wind.
Tell me about how things happen at once. About how this house is silent and cracked walls when across the street there's drunken laughter and a broken window. About how that's better than this. Tell me about how all things end. About how everything matters here when nothing really does. About how that's better than this.
There's nothing heroic about foreseeing the future. 150 years ago today, an old woman somewhere in Asia predicted that a train 6,014 nautiful miles from underneath her apple tree would fall into a ravine exactly an hour and twenty minutes after midnight. No one believed her.
They said it was the certainly of death that drove her mad.