Your present, your future, your path
from one to the other.
It’s not a bad thing, really.
What more do you need
than a little skin to cover your heart,
a little heart
to cover your losses, a little loss
to hold you in this place
that may not be a place
but is the only place you stand a chance
of finding a way to live.
You get credit for trying
to live when you never have,
for acting natural
when you are an unnatural act,
an impersonation of a person
you’d like to meet, have dinner with, strip
to some essential, attractive fact,
you get credit for refusing to be ashamed
of the act of imagination
that keeps you down here, rooting in the dark,
and sometimes laughing
in creation’s basement.
[from The American Poetry Review (vol. 42, no. 1, January/February 2013)]
“You made a pact with witches and gods. I can show you how to steal that fire.”
“I don’t think Grandmother would like that very much.”
“I will tell you a secret: The gods like nothing better. They sit on their mountaintops and in their sacred places, waiting for us to be brave enough to live our lives. They weep when we don’t.”
Jacob Clifton, The Urges
(a fantastic self-published novel I just finished reading. Apparently it’s not available to order anymore, which sucks cause it’s amazing.)