In another life I was a weed, a grocery list.
A crescent wrench or crescent moon. A fall
up a ladder. The diary of a dog
written in urine. A song sung once
from a mountain to a different mountain
across a valley that turned to listen.
I was me with smaller hands or you
with better posture or a maitre de
dressed in rain. A guard in Auschwitz?
Many someones were. Everything that has happened
happened for a reason, such as because.
When the moon dies, it'll come back
as a flashlight, then a scholar
of Ahas. There are moments, you know,
when it's best to cry harder or help someone
cry faster, deeper, like a trench
digging its way through their heart
to get to the other side of not knowing
what to do or say or how to lift
the coming tomorrows. Was I ever that person
or the kind of flower that knows
when to knock on a door?
In the future, I may be excellent
or beautifully forgotten
or beholden to a warlord
who can't tie his shoes. I have one word
for this possible life -- slip-ons --
and four words for anyone who decides
to love me: good luck with that.