Jennifer Dixey's Shared Poems

the person you were
left behind at the gate,
you make your way
down the aisle
to your seat
to meet
the next person who will change you
into the next person
you will be: arrived,

you rise, stretch, try
to fit yourself to a new
frame - someone
with fewer limits,
more options,
new language
with which to decide
what your life will be

and if
we could fly
without the aid
of mechanical wings, would
this still be? maybe
it's not the people you meet, but air itself,
the very sense of escaping
the limits of
our grounded
selves

The walk is long, starting at your house,
Counting as you cross each square of sidewalk:
One, two, ten, one hundred
Careful to avoid the cracks

Then you're finally at the road,
The one made of dirt instead of asphalt,
With real, tall trees, branches
That bend over your head, and
Best of all, the creek
Beside the road, in the morning shade,
Always worth exploring, looking
For tadpoles you can put in a jar
And take home, so different
From the lizards in the desert where you're from

They only lost their tails, but tadpoles
Change to something different
Like a magic trick

The way you'll change
After you've walked that road
A hundred times

Past the creek, to the town, the foursquare church,
The corner store selling popsicles shaped like rockets,
The school where no one
Is your friend

Close up your heart
Like a house you're leaving

Let everything inside
Gather dust

Then one, two days of
Every year, just visit

Rattle the front door knob
Make sure it's good and locked

Check the windows
To see that none have cracked

But don't go inside
Or you'll disturb the dust
Let something out

And then who knows
What may happen

if anyone asked me
I'd say I don't want to waste my life
but if they asked me this
they would probably ask me on Facebook
and I'd tell them as a comment
and then click on something else

and then realize
like I just did
that time is life
and that yes, I'm wasting my life
two minutes at a time, and that
I'd better write a poem

dark but dawn is coming
not rushing but slowly
dragging itself to the horizon
to send out one tentative
tendril of light

in a few hours
it will be the first
hour of the first day
or rather daylight
of a new year

and the sound you hear
is a sigh, made up
of so many hopes
aligned like planets
pointing the way

to new
new starts
new approaches
new life, new breath
new ways to build and live

and the sound you hear
is the holding of that breath
the tickle at the back
of the throat, the
giveaway: it's all well

and good to say
we'll be new
but we know we are still we
still flawed, human things
that cannot will ourselves

into new forms, shifting shapes
to suit new expectations:
instead we carry with us
all the suns of all the days
we have already passed

suns neatly folded
into pockets, darkside out,
sunside in, that we let out only
when we need to
remind ourselves

of who we really are