“November” and “Timshel”

November

Although I had no choice, as I bounded
toward the world I’d feel brave, coursing

right for the only place allowed and awestruck
by the void, the flight, the chill, others like me,

the sights: it’s not often I’d see thread-like trails
dissolving on mountain tops, or the disheveled

peaks of trees, sculpted crowns of man’s most
important points, orchards, oranges, fields

of berries and oats, your roof — never again
would I dawdle past to join my rivals on the back

of a doe, the Jack O’Lantern in her mouth now
a toothless harmless forgotten version of himself.

On her warm fur I’d cease to be myself, while she,
perhaps, enjoyed the particular sound of your voice.

 

Timshel

Like me, you are plunging into the abyss,
head first, scared but grinning, buoyed by

dark currents, the bliss of resolution,
a wild misplaced trust in the underworld.

It’s cold and fishy until we ditch resistance
and sink into warm oil, soft wax, ultrasound

jelly — we are born not for wisdom or good
deeds but for feeling like this. No matter

what sad sacks we were on the surface, here
we are beginning. Fresh paint on a masterpiece,

the sustained A-note in the concert hall.
If only I could see you. Was that your hand

or more bubbles? What have I missed
in my descent toward a different life?