reminds me of the time I ran
away from home, when I was
seven,
and how, sitting on some
nearby train tracks and staring
down them, the birch and
maple on either side of them
seemed to grow as silent and
pensive as I felt about my
mother’s condition,
which seemed to arise out of
nowhere, and, just as quickly,
disappear,
like a car passing by the house,
or like the white-faced hornet
that once protected my ear
like it was the front door to its
oniony nest.
I believe the superpower to
being lovingly depressed is that,
for a short time, the world
comes into focus, so minutely,
it becomes possible to be held
by a you who wasn’t there.
My Poety Place 