Whenever I feel my feet walking in the direction of despair,
I stare at the ground, desperately looking for a dropped coin
in hiding. Some days, it takes longer to find something shiny.
Other days, I look up to see if there is anything
resembling God, like a heron flying,
a servant to the tides and the king of the lakeshore.
It flies with a grace I’ll never have.
My flying is poetry. The words
put together this way and that way, mirroring
the soaring wings moving with the whims of the wind.
That’s me on a good day.
Sometimes there is nothing but broken glass and empty wrappers
that used to hold something sweet; just grey cement.
But, finally, between the cracks, there’s moving brown:
a small lizard with a throat bigger than mine.
Poetry is my red-throated neck. It saves me
from the tumble, the voice that says “you’re not enough”.
The words sag and stick on the walls of my head;
of food that won’t go down.
But somehow, by looking around, gravity is relearned.
I fall but—
the ground of the page catches me again.
Give me a few days and my faith will waver.
Give me a few lie-ins and I’ll never wake up.
But, for now, my feet find a way that’s not a block away.