Wherein poet Deva Haney writes and rambles until she shambles off the beaten page and gets lost.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
the bucket is full its contents threaten to overflow with every step I have to measure my pace walk very slowly it takes hours to move but an inch
the bucket is heavy its bottom deep no point in looking within its depths are unknowable the end of its insides impossible to fathom
the bucket is greedy never satisfied its belly swells up enough to eat every painful drop but it has no guts it cannot digest any of it
walking along the path my lopsided yoke and huge hungry bucket whose wide open mouth could swallow the heavens are pulling down, down on my right shoulder listing to the side like a ship half-sunk while the captain stands slant-legged on the bow mulling over the specifics of his duty
a passerby stops to ask me, What's with you, why do you lean so far over, why can't you stop almost falling down?
and I dip my hands in the bucket try to draw out one single silver droplet that will explain it try to choose one molecule from the ocean that I'm hauling uphill but the more I try to tease out one lone care to be my example the wider the gaps of my fingers become until I am holding nothing but the span of a canyon that cannot be bridged
and everything I meant to say slips back into the bucket all of a piece and hoisting the slanted yoke back up my shoulder resuming its shameful ache I tell them, Do you see? I no longer know