Left and found

Left and found

“To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.” —Cheslaw Milosz

The worst interview of my life:

I want the memory to stop

slapping me in the forehead.

I would have been a teacher,

but the three-day introduction

at the art school in the mountains

fell like bear shit in snow. I got

shut and shy, retriggered faults,

sat with the maintenance staff

instead of my future fellows

because it was the first seat

I saw in the strange dining hall.

My friend who’d opened the door

for me stopped meeting my eyes.

The last morning, I slipped away

like a whisper through the snow,

hazarding the icy roads to leave.

The teachers—they had put me

with the one boy who was not

fitting in thinking, perhaps,

we could help each other.

I believe in redemption,
so I’ll go back into that time

with skis and with honey,

with sage and age, a candle

and a poem. I’ll let my body

untangle the monkey puzzle,

and not merely surrender

to the wisdom of timing

(I have no trouble doing that).

Let me say this now: I was one

to be proud of, then, and I can

demonstrate why and how.

It will take more than a poem

in words. You will need to see

me dance it out—I will need to.