It's All a Bowl of Broth

Every day, one way or another,
I hold my mother’s knuckle marks on my face
up to the flash of my dad’s Nikon,
so the marks can be snapped
like so much else has been snapped.
That’s just the way I’ve chosen.

But it’s when I think about having to record
what beatings I’ve chosen to take
in order to be listened to these days,
that I find myself becoming depressed,

a lot different than when,
noticing the marks are on my soul,
I take a picture of them
and hold them up to my faith,
where they disintegrate into something like truth.

Today, I was simply looking out the window
hoping my faith would come find me
and prove to me once and for all
there was no need to continue looking for happiness,

but I became ashamed for thinking that,
since I knew any hope of being happy all the time
would never make it by this faith I have
in the human spirit’s ability to remain hopeful
even when all has been lost,
and maybe even because all has been lost.

Then, all I wanted to do was reflect upon the way
I was reflecting about everything,
only I became afraid all the light
would hasten my own death,

a small pool of water
basking on a sunlight warmed rock,
reflecting the sky
and the lake resembling a larger version of it,
until I evaporated into the passing afternoon.

And so reader, I’ll say I’m thankful for the clouds,
for those moments, and there are a lot of them,
where I can’t tell my ass from my elbow.

But it’s all a bowl of broth.