At 15 I would stare
at the spaces between stars
–much as I did when I was younger,
gazing at a Magic 8 ball
waiting for a message,
an answer to an urgent question,
to flutter up out of its darkness.
Will Sally ever kiss me?
I was delighted when “yes”
would drift up. Cryptic?
Yes, yes, yes! I would shout,
my future assured.
Now I gaze at poems,
whose messages are as murky
as the Amazon River.
Why am I apparently
the only one who doesn’t
understand this famous poem?
Even when the theme
is explained, I don’t “get it”.
Following its caverns and caves
I’m like an underwater diver
swimming alone
in a submerged labyrinth.
Following my rope back
I find its frayed end,
and I am more lost
than when I began my dive
into Kubla Khan.
Ask me to play a dulcimer.
Ask me to find a sunny
pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
But don’t ask me
what the hell this poem means!
Shouldn’t I feel better
after reading a “great” poem?
Shouldn’t my confidence grow?
Listening to the professor
I’m 6 years old again as my father
expounds on the electric motor
to his friends. They nod along,
as do my classmates.
My heart is like my father
when I would come home
with disappointing grades;
it feels nothing but shame.
Sally never kissed me.
Yet I felt better knowing
my Magic 8 ball’s prediction
that she would.
The simple “yes” that floated up
from the darkness
may have been a lie, or misguided.
But the answer was legible
and gave clarity to my life.
My confidence launched,
I stared into empty dark spaces
from my bedroom window
all night dreaming
of Sally
with the same joy
of an astronaut–his rocket
on the launch pad–
stares at his future
and the encircling stars,
his thumb raised high
in an “A-OK”. Go ahead,
he radios down to the control room,
“Light the candle!”
