scarecrow on fire

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We all think about suddenly disappearing.

The train tracks lead there, into the woods.

Even in the financial district: wooden doors

in alleyways. First I want to put something small

into your hand, a button or river stone or

key I don’t know to what. I don’t

have that house anymore across from the graveyard

and its black angel. What counts as a proper

goodbye? My last winter in Iowa there was always

a ladybug or two in the kitchen for cheer

even when it was ten below. We all feel

suspended over a drop into nothingness.

Once you get close enough, you see what

one is stitching is a human heart. Another

is vomiting wings. Hell, even now I love life.

Whenever you put your feet on the floor

in the morning, whatever the nightmare,

it’s a miracle or fantastic illusion:

the solidity of the boards, the steadiness

coming into the legs. Where did we get

the idea when we were kids to rub dirt

into the wound or was that just in Pennsylvania?

Maybe poems are made of breath, the way water,

cajoled to boil, says, This is my soul, freed.

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~ Dean Young

from Fall Higher

Word comes that a heart has been found for Dean Young and surgery is proceeding. 

The heart is beating. Gratitude to the donor whose gift is making such a difference.

thanks to rebel girl for the update!

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