What I Don’t Write About

My mother. This pain in my shoulder. This intertia
that pins me to my bed. The way light passes

through water on birch leaves. The quick, spotted
cat watching the goldfish. I don’t write about you.

Life is no place to be smart, you tell me. Not only
do you hurt, but you can’t stop thinking about it.

Fear and lies leak from the radio, elusive but real
as mercury. Slippery. Rain is still falling into this

garden. I dream of another universe, a different
garden, with more dimensions, more creatures,

more poems. I can’t stop thinking about it. What if …
What if the bit of debris circling the space station

were discovered to be an artifact, but not of earth
origin? Would there be a sudden silence across this

planet, as we looked at each other? Would we suddenly
be merely human, just that — one immense organism,

one vast and sentient race? This body still hurts.
Clouds are moving heavily, eastward. Stay safe.