To see emotion as a duty
Mourning as an obligation
This is the fundamental difference between these two men –
One will feel, will consider, will grapple with the waves that loss will bring to his shore
The other will respond according to tradition –
Any emotion he has will be pressed into an unrecognizable shape.
Does he mourn the brother he killed? If he does – he’s pressed this copper of the penny into a flat souvenir and printed his own seal upon it.
Then he condescends to his nephew stepson
And pats him on the head for doing something
He himself has not the slightest idea of how to do.

The sky like a coat rack
Clouds like a hanger
The sun like Velcro
Clouds passing like cotton cannot help but cling to it.
I am trying to be bright
To shine, to take my light and beam it wide
But these clouds are like moths to my flame.
They follow me
Shadowing my intentions
Standing between me and what I want
Surrounding me like pig pen’s cloud of dust.
These clouds, these dark heavy clouds
Seem to get fuller every day.
I wish it would rain and clear.
They would spend themselves in thunder and lightning –
Pour down torrents
Til every drop of cumulonimbus vapor has dissipated.
When the ground is drenched
I will be unburdened.

He doesn’t even get his own sentence by the time his royal uncle gets around to addressing him.
He’s been denied his position
Lost his father
(and his mother in her sudden remarriage)
He’s all at sea –
His uncle talks to almost everyone in the room but him
Before he finally faces him.
And he dares to call him “son”?
I still prickle when my stepmother
Calls me daughter and she married my father decades ago –
To risk that after a few days or weeks
Or whatever it is – no wonder Claudius gets interrupted.
If it were me, I’d be shouting,
“You are not my father!”
No matter how childish or out of propriety it might be.
My cousin and my son?!
Damn, Claudius, that was clumsy.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Laertes.
Pick up blue bonnets and daisies
While the sun is shining and there’s space in your basket.
In short time, those flowers will whither
Along with the bright light of your sister
Along with your joy
Along with your carefree student days
Along with your studies
Along with your innocence
Along with you duty.
Now – it is all spread before you
A meadow full of possibility.
In front of you a blooming stalk of hope
Smell it
Stroke it
Take it with you.
Eat the petals if they’re flavorful;
Later, they will be dry and dusty. Take it. Take it.

What doesn’t say Polonius?
The man can talk a blue streak.
Even more so when he says he’ll be brief.
That’s the time to get yourself a cushion and a beverage because
You’re going to be there a while.
Some people are like that.
Some
You can ask how they are and get your expected “fine”
Others
Will take your question as an opportunity.
They will tell you the story of their day
From the moment they woke up
To this present late night moment.
They will not leave any part out
They will tell you the color of the train and what
The conductor said as he opened the doors.
I once dated a man like this.
One night on the phone, I decided to see how
Long he could go on without any encouragement from me.
I restrained myself from even an “mmm” or a “yeah” and 45 minutes later
He paused
(for applause)
before asking
“How are you?”
I probably said, “I’m fine. And actually
I have to go.”

How much of this leave is his?
What percentage of my wandering
Belongs to my dad somehow?
He gave me a bit of the leaving at least.
Passed back to my mother on Tuesday night
Or Monday, life is a series of goodbyes.
See you Thursday
See you Saturday
Be back soon
Which he did.
So I also got his returning
Along with his leaving.
I have his willingness to quit that crappy job and also
His willingness to return to it.
I have his going, his coming, his breaking, his repairing.
There is also his ability to leave while remaining in the room.
I got that too.
I have his leave, his stay, his return, his departure, his welcome his
Goodbye
His longing
His surrender
His love
His hope
His heart
His
His
Mine.

Ask and you shall receive
Except when you shan’t.
Mostly people say this as they’re giving you something you were just asking for.
It’s almost always a small joke
One that lives in the tiny coincidence of itself.
Sometimes it’s hard to ask.
Sometimes because you’ve asked a million times over and not received
Sometimes because you couldn’t confess to what you truly wanted
Because you hope that she will read your mind
Because sometimes it feels like she can
But years of asking and asking wears a man down
Til he does not ask
And he does not receive.

Hand to mouth
Head to heart
Father to throne
The hand feeds the mouth,
With the most basic movement
One of the first we ever learn –
How to turn our head toward the hand
That holds our food
How to lift our fingers
Upward in the most efficient arc
Bite
After
Bite
After
Bite.
But does the head serve the heart in the same way?
Does the head deliver sustenance
To our longing hearts?
Does it give us relief?
Does it find ways to make us feel the love we want?
Does it bring us ideas that satisfy our questions?
Does it touch us with thought?
Sometimes
Sometimes
I suppose I long for a mind that would feed my heart
So reliably
That would sense my hunger and provide just the thought to satiate it
But my mind seems to prefer to make problems
And solve them. It likes to say “Yes, but. . .”
And deny my feelings.
Sometimes it plugs its ears and sings
“I can’t hear you. I can’t hear you. Can’t you see I’m trying to get things done!”
But my hand, yes, my hand
Will reliably
Get that piece of bread to my mouth and it is,
Of course, my mind that makes that happen too.

How much would I love to anticipate
What you want?
I’d give you mango before your lips made an mmm
I’d touch you in the place you would point to if someone asked where you hurt
Before you could ask for violins, I’d have them
Playing just the refrain you’d request.
Even the secret parts of myself that I don’t show to anyone,
I could whisper them to you
Even as the question was forming in your mind.
I would, I swear, if I knew ahead of you.
But ask anyway. The asking is a door I will walk through for you.
I’m standing in the frame
I go in or out
At your request.

My voice is often lost in reason.
Lately I find myself speaking uncomfortable truth to power.
When I do, sometimes I have to push my voice out
Past my own warning system
Past the loud chatter in the room
Past the thought of “This could get me fired.”
Past my desire to please. And in that journey
The voice is lost and if it comes out, it comes out rasping.
Sometimes I manage to get heard anyway, then power finds a way to silence me after.
Power says “Thank you for that thought.” And then quietly brings in a supervisor to do my work.
Power says, “What an interesting point!” and then takes back the job it offered me.

Speaking of reason is a risk
But so is swallowing it.