Last Poem for April

I have been asked many questions in my life about poetry, religion, life, and I have given precisely the same number of answers, but I have never, I repeat, never, satisfied a single interlocutor. Why? Because all questioning is a way of avoiding the real answer, which as Zen tells us, is really known already. Every man is enlightened, but wishes he wasn't. Every man knows he must love his enemies, and sell all he has and give to the poor, but he doesn't wish to know it - so he asks questions. R. H. Blyth

April is a good month for poetry.

Flashlights on the Spillway

When the flashlights shone on us at the reservoir,

where we were fishing over the spillway (with all the "keep off" signs)

Somebody yelled "stop!" and I froze.

But you yelled, "run!" and we took off like rabbits,

I on your heels, and we ran, and we ran, and we got away

from the MAN -

I touch your face gently. Your forehead, with the tip of my fingers.

Your temples, with my kiss. Always sweet and soft -

You want me to fish with you. You tie the lures for me -

You're happy when we slay and haul in the crappie, the large-mouth,

the small mouth, the sun fishes.

You freed me. You freed me.

You didn't care if I pleased the people in your life,

You told me that it didn't matter to you.

You don't protect me - now I protect me.

You scrub the ceramic cook top

polishing, polishing, polishing,

the torque of your arm shaking your whole behind,

concentration

all of that precise energy going out of your fingertips

You polish me

And I shine.

-SLG