CHOICES?
Waving From the Shore
J.B. Rowell
I’m not sure how
I got on this boat,
waves lift and lower,
with no view ahead
where sky stitches into
sea—just the wake
and what is left behind:
silhouetted figure, hand open,
questioning.
Like the repeating dream
I had as a child, only now
I’m driving away
while you flicker in red
and yellow lights
of the ferris wheel
wondering why they left—
also knowing
they always would.
Choices we make aren’t
choices, they happen,
are meant to be
because they happened,
and we can say, I always
wanted a girl and then a boy,
spaced just so—with curls,
blue eyes, ten perfect toes,
but really, they choose you.
The only choice now is leaving
the third behind
on the shore.
J.B. Rowell
I’m not sure how
I got on this boat,
waves lift and lower,
with no view ahead
where sky stitches into
sea—just the wake
and what is left behind:
silhouetted figure, hand open,
questioning.
Like the repeating dream
I had as a child, only now
I’m driving away
while you flicker in red
and yellow lights
of the ferris wheel
wondering why they left—
also knowing
they always would.
Choices we make aren’t
choices, they happen,
are meant to be
because they happened,
and we can say, I always
wanted a girl and then a boy,
spaced just so—with curls,
blue eyes, ten perfect toes,
but really, they choose you.
The only choice now is leaving
the third behind
on the shore.
posted by J.B. Rowell at 6:43 PM
2 Comments:
Thanks Michael, what a comparison: my poem with a Harvard professor's work - cool - is there a place online to read that poem? And thanks for pointing out the glaring typo I missed again - oh well - I'll leave it so your comment holds true.
P.S. This is my husband's favorite poem of mine - I wonder why . . .
Will watch for Harold Bloom on your blog, thanks Michael. I edited the poem, and it has inspired me to post my poem about typos . . .
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