Thursday, 1 May 2014

29. Today, I Want to Forgive Everyone Everything

The lover who shuffled out on his bills, whose stubborn
white envelopes still thunk on the mat.

The Mexican lucky candle merchant in Queens,
who promised fortune in the flicker of the wick.

Everyone who ever stole my pens. No matter
that I wake in the night, bulging with ideas
that are lost to feathers and dust.

Today, I want to forgive birds for morning birdsong
when dark moods curdle my horizons,

forgive houseplants for their slow brown suicides,
forgive the architect who installed my kitchen sink.

Forgive my heart its softness, its inability to stay
upright, forgive every fall.

Take this—my hive of resentment—and let it
burn magnesium sulphate flowers.

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