All my life I have loved too much
for the things across the lake–
the green grass, the swaying trees,
blue sky that turns gold
fish jumping out of the water catching the air
the little white house graying in the drizzle, strange
noises the wind carries
while I am standing on the sand.
This is the lament of the wolf when the moon disappears.
This is the longing of the splinter inside my lover’s skin.
This is narcolepsy, chronic and incurable.
Call this whatever you want.
This impostor syndrome.
This scarlet woman, red
head burns under the cursing sun.
This surrogate son’s conditioned indifference.
This ache in this mother’s breast.
This wax paper of life
I’ve tried tirelessly to leave a mark.
As if there were words for every object of cravings,
as if we were capable of understanding what we have not endured.