Reverberate

Out of the chaos there could have been the calm of a lake in the middle of the night
or the sound of the distant rustle of tall grass in the middle of a field

but my chaos could only emerge as the racket of imaginary birds pecking at the
imaginary ground of memory I will say this: even the birds knew when to sleep

but I chose insomnia persistent unreal and plastic I made it up until it became real
here’s the day when I think only of my Mother and tomorrow is the day I let

the memories of childhood roll over me like sheets of ice pushing me to the day
when it all echoes in my thoughts back then no chaos except the word the only chaos

I know is the chaos of death and I do not go back to that forest unless my brain
catches the light at the right angle reversing itself and letting the words reverberate

like time travelers until the only words I can remember are words from the past and
even then where did the words star? Stardust, maybe, or some ancient cloud in the

distant universe where I have begun to stash all of my bad dreams a planet where
I can send my chaos which doesn’t exist into a ship into the orbit of a distant

world where it will sit and sit until I discover it one morning eating toast (I never
just eat toast) or looking into the margins waiting for my notes to echo into my mind

and pull back the planet into my mind. Here the chaos was calm, for awhile, here
I thought of nothing to do with pain or hurt, I remembered my Mother the way

a daughter does, no more no less. Here I will be sitting, unassuming to what is about
to reverberate in my life. Again. Always again. Though with longer spaces between us.