Missing Person (poem)

In the room of my life the elephant

squatting on the rug  obscured

something even worse – a giant

hole. You know what I’m talking

about if you’ve ever had a party and

suddenly you’re counting heads to

see if you should run for more

beer and oddly, someone, but you

don’t know who, is missing. And then

you’re not sure if you even remember

the people who are here, acting

like your friends, and maybe you are

drunk or maybe you haven’t been

paying enough attention. I haven’t

wanted to talk about it, the vacancy,

the pit around which I’ve skipped and

jived like everything’s fine, no, just

don’t mind that, it’s an elephant, it’s

no crisis, everything’s fine. But then

my children were licking lollipops

and I couldn’t recall how they got there,

and in the mirror I, too, seemed

vaguely familiar, but also possibly

a stranger who had wondered in looking

for a good time. Who did I leave

behind, all these years? My father’s

immortal on the mantle, my mother’s

out on tour; and the family portrait’s

faithfully interactive, faces appearing

and fading as they have, as they do.

Oddly, yesterday, the vibrations of the

singing bowl quivered gently the edges

of my home and a song could be heard,

coming from the blank space: I’m here,

I am here, everybody. I could feel

myself very cautiously with my hand on

the knob of the door – to exit, to enter, to

let the unknown fully form and not resist

it – that is where I am, I notice – right

here. It’s quite clear that the door, the

presence behind it, has always been

cracked open, and that I can decide to

arrive, if I want to, instead of hiding out

at my own soiree, keeping my distance from

my own furniture, checking out of

my own life. I’m here, the voice is

calling, and I think I know who

I am, long lost and lost long. I think I

I’m ready to risk showing up

for my life, admitting it’s mine, even if

everybody leaves and it’s just me

here, open for the welcoming.

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