The completeness
is here,
the fulfillment
is not something
I can get,
reach, earn,
grasp,
grab, package,
imagine.
It’s so soft,
so empty
and invisible.

My mother never told me
it would be
like this.
My father must have
suspected it-
that’s why he had to drink
and drink.

Because then,
lying on his back,
at night
in the snow
of our front yard,
out of his mind,
out of his body,

It was then
he could rest,
and get right off
the crazy
merry-go round
of desire
that was eating at him
from inside.

And not even
his own desires,
but my mother’s.
He inhaled them all-
her voracious consuming vision
of the good life.

Deep inside,
he knew better.
After the war,
after all the madness,
he knew

It’s just rest
that calls us,
the alive silence.

We all just
want to stop
right here.

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