Beginnings

Onsets are a tyranny—
when we freeze up
under pregnant expectations,

fearing some judge, our
own swift brain,will damn us
inglorious to an ignominious doom

or else plunge us full-force
at that bull with the dual horns,
red cape tossed out

with flair, banderillas poised
as if we knew what dangers
we faced, sage maniacs

of the ring—
surmising the end
makes everything so much

easier, we can dance in the chase,
pretend our adventure offered
somehow a bushed fox,

knowing all the while
that true beginnings terrorize
every thrill-seeking heart,

more mysterious than where the cosmos
bangs to when it begins spreading
its poem, its angle, its life.

Tell us the rhythm to start:
we'll circulate with glad abandon
in our sacred bones.

             

 

Starting Out

One foot, then another.
Heart lifts weight like a stone,
wraps its shawl. Eyes
gaggle and move soberly.

No one yet knows the victims,
the war hasn't been shot
or blown, sides hardly chosen,
clouds only just gathering.

Our oven bakes bread:
It rises. Something will be eaten,
a farewell toast, last clutch
in the ripping throat.

The dawn is high:
We must fly.