Ordinary Rituals

The Simplest of Things Lost

It’s a big mess, this. Bird flies high above it all, above my hollow eyes and broken heart. Bird watches as the fog rolls in up over the cold concrete and damp sand, over the brown blanket under which a man sleeps, his desire gone long ago. Bird doesn’t judge. I envy you bird, how ordinary you are, how effortlessly you land on the right kind of branch. Bird doesn’t long for clothing or shoes, but I do. I’m a loose bag of human clutter, misshapen lumps and rattling bones naked without a costume, without definition, without a taste in my mouth. I’m standing up to my neck in sweet nothingness, nowhere holier than here. Bird, show me how, how do I take my black heart and angry fists and take flight? I used to be in love with everything, but I woke up this morning shedding, losing my faith, my feathers, my hope. Nettles and cobwebs cloud my brain and all I can do is make believe things aren’t so bad, that I can love the world and remember that I once danced and wore dresses and brushed my hair. I long for a nudge, someone to turn the corner, a crack, a tongue, a hand on my shoulder, a memory, the sound of a wave crashing, my mother’s voice, ordinary rituals. Maybe they do come back.