Sunken Gardens

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I woke with this brain feeling.

 

A place where the limbs of even the strongest trees swayed in the wind.

 

A lattice work of light, warm, like fingertips on my face.

 

What does it mean to be human?

 

Born broken, blistered and misconfigured, the taste of fruit on my lips. 

 

And so, with my door open and eyes closed,

 

I went upstairs for a smoke.

    

    And then

 

        I came

        

            down.

 

On TV, a soldier, just returned from deployment, surprises his five-year-old son.

 

Such an embrace, I thought, until the air conditioner cycled-on with a clunk.

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And so, I swallowed my heart, feeling the universe and its stranglehold, wondering​ if this was a mistake.

 

If I could talk to anyone, it would be Coco the Gorilla, the primate that had been taught sign language. I would ask her, do animals, too, know that they are going to die?

​

Because, we do, I'd say.

 

And, have you ever thought of ending it? Or are such impulses unique to human thought?

​

Even so,

​

they put me on day-meds, night-meds, and some in-between.

 

A copay for each prescription, as if all of this existed in isolation. 

​

"I'm not a stranger here," I insist, all afternoon, eager for evening:

 

After work, after dinner, we descended the cobblestone stairs on the conservatory grounds, joining the well-dressed men and women in the Sunken Gardens where, in the distance, a tuxedoed quartet played Pachelbel's Canon in D.

​

We stopped to admire a pink orchid, feeling strange, eyeing it as if were some alien sex organ.

​

"What do you think it feels like to believe in god?" you asked, straightening my corsage. 

 

"It must be comforting," I said, taking your hand.  

​

We began to walk, we began to orbit, faces flush, eyes open. 

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And there, beneath the peaches-and-cream sky, at sunset, everything appeared golden, even the streets.