( artwork by Naomi)
Practice
You can’t even let go
of the blue casserole dish--
how in the world
are you going to let go
of the world? I ask myself,
standing in my kitchen
in the late afternoon sunlight
which is turning everything to gold.
Everything, that is, except the blue
casserole dish, which isn’t here
because my stepdaughter borrowed it
without asking me.
And it pisses me off because
I love that casserole dish.
Because it belonged to my mother.
Let it go, I tell myself, or maybe
that’s my mother telling me,
because she had so little time herself
to practice letting go, suddenly
finding herself on the gurney
in Emergency, apologising
to all the nurses: “I’m sorry.
I’m not very good at this.” As if
“this” were something one could
get good at, if one practiced
letting go a little at a time,
practiced dying a little at a time,
practiced turning to gold a little at a time.
Overcast
It’s the almost that I love
about a gray day
like today. In weather
like this, I almost
feel a kind of joy:
the heavy sky, the feeling
in the air of imminent release.
I feel like I could almost
cry. Cry as I haven’t
since I was a boy.
Because I haven’t let myself.
The overcast sky says almost.
The charged air says could.
You could do this.
You could let yourself go,
feel the thunderous sobs,
wave after wave, shoulders
heaving, lungs emptying
in that jagged way
that almost looks like
laughter. And the hiccuping
like a child that comes after.
It could feel so good,
says this feeling in the air.
Almost like joy, says the sky.
-Paul Hostovsky
Paul Hostovsky's poems have won a Pushcart Prize and two Best of the Net Awards. His latest book of poems is PITCHING FOR THE APOSTATES (Kelsay, 2023). He makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter. Website: paulhostovsky.com
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