 | one single syllable … |
 | |
Permission Granted
by David Allen Sullivan
You do not have to choose the bruised peach
or misshapen pepper others pass over.
You don’t have to bury
your grandmother’s keys underneath
her camellia bush as the will states.
You don’t need to write a poem about
your grandfather coughing up his lung
into that plastic tube—the machine’s wheezing
almost masking the kvetching sisters
in their Brooklyn kitchen.
You can let the crows amaze your son
without your translation of their cries.
You can lie so long under this
summer shower your imprint
will be left when you rise.
You can be stupid and simple as a heifer.
Cook plum and apple turnovers in the nude.
Revel in the flight of birds without
dreaming of flight. Remember the taste of
raw dough in your mouth as you edged a pie.
Feel the skin on things vibrate. Attune
yourself. Close your eyes. Hum.
Each beat of the world’s pulse demands
only that you feel it. No thoughts.
Just the single syllable: Yes …
See the homeless woman following
the tunings of a dead composer?
She closes her eyes and sways with the subways. Follow her down,
inside, where the singing resides.
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Particularly lovely, hm?
So much so that I might tape it to my forehead. Or at least keep it in the white Dooney & Bourke (Thank you, Puzzler) that I just switched to for Spring.
Just so I might remember to say: Yes …
Mr. Sullivan’s books at Amazon.
