When I was eleven, my mother took me to the Norman Rockwell Museum.

Standing in front of Freedom from Want, I listened

as the docent explained how Rockwell created the illusion of water

in the glasses. All that white and glass and water- the painting really

is a remarkable achievement; even I, a child, could see

that. But what most interested me about the work

was the guy in the lower right corner who looks like

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the creepy uncle. Even now he unnerves me. Staring directly at us, wanting to know

if we’re in on the joke, asking, “You know that ain’t no water, right?

That’s paint. Here have a sip.” But he’s saying it with his eyes

because Grandma taught him better than to use the word ain’t

and she sure as hell doesn’t know he drinks anything stronger than

tea. He must need a drink, sitting at that pure, pristine table, amongst all those nice,

clean, well-behaved people. What are they talking about?

Sports? Stocks? School? Grandma’s dinner? That turkey,

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it does look delicious, but I bet it’s dry. Good thing those nice folks have something

to drink. My family is a lot like theirs, although we also imbibe in vodka and wine,

and when we  give thanks it is in the haze of the candlelit dusk where we sit at a table laid

with Waterford and Lenox, inebriated by our own lies, so many that, we can no longer discern the glasses from the water.

The chipmunk is flat.

It would peel off the pavement with little resistance

if not for the blood and entrails that hold it to the surface

like of a piece of glue soaked construction paper

stuck to a child’s school desk.

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If one removes it with one’s hands, parts will come up

with ease. Some will need to be scraped-bits of ear, kidney,

fur to later be found in nail beds. The rest will remain

on the street until someone comes and shovels the remnants

of the small, once delicate body and throws it

away with the rest of the carnage

collected during the week.

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What fate! Crushed by a behemoth-

a dramatic end for an inconsequential creature.

Now, only a flat, damp, skin sheet.

No trace of beauty.

No trace of itself other than the color

and the tell-tale black and white stripes.

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Leave it be.

Perhaps the crows will find the corpse.

They will pick at its flesh

and fill their bellies, offering it purpose,

and so, dignity.

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There is a fine distance between myself and the robin.

There are seven yards.

There is the height of the branch.

There is the wall, and the window of my kitchen, the plate glass, the plaster, the brick.

There is my chair

And myself, perched upon it.

Me, still as the robin, enjoying this perfect, soft space

Where I can watch, unheard, unseen

Content with companionship from afar;

Content to observe, to know

Something other than myself, without myself being known;

Content to make this something part of me,

To live within my mind, my fantasies,

Allowing me to increase the distance

With a steady, slow retreat

Into a world away from this noise and hurt.

Just for today, let’s pretend all is well;

that once was, still is;

that a breeze blown from the right direction

can lift mountains

and carry shadows away into the night of another day.

Because, my love,

some things still are.

Some things still quiver under aging flesh.

Desire, though obscured by the burdens of time, still pulses.

Hope still begs to be seen

and light still shines

when your hand takes mine.

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The world has gone still.

All are lost in the silence of unquiet minds.

But I am neither still nor quiet.

I stand in the deafening roar of this new work

delivered by the tide of strange upheaval

that has cast me onto the shore

of a place I do not recognize.