Spring Poem
How dare I wake? How dare I step
under hot jets and lather suds
into wet locks, and relish the scald
on my skin, on the back of my brass neck,
how dare I? Who do I think I am?
How dare I dress? How dare I sit
at a clutter-covered desk
one morning in April, thinking
of death, thinking of death
as a life event, of death and breakfast,
a blizzard of blossom outside, confetti-
storm in a scene from a Moonie wedding.
What right have I to cross
a petal-speckled lawn, tune in
to the flutes of birdsong, and shift
a weathered shed door from its frame,
unhinged, stoop into a dim room
and peer at seedlings? The nerve of me!
How dare those pale curled stems push,
with infinitely slow, imperceptible force,
a gobbet of earth from their heads
and, just as unwatchably slowly,
start to unbend? Have they no respect?
You’ll never guess what next.
I dare to return to the desk,
having worked up the courage
en route, to fix myself a sandwich,
pesto with cheese (controversially, certainly)
and write some words on a page.
I don’t know what I should do about myself.
I am utterly shameless.
Even writing this, I might be so bold
as to not destroy it. Typical.
Sure, what else would I expect?
hus I am censured, even in the blossom
of my sin. O spring. How fucking dare I?