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For the Convenience of Naming

Something has disappeared that was no good after all.

In a late night happy-tired stretch

she sees she’s just the same she that she’s

always been,

and she feels will always be.

Not a teacher, not a writer,

not a spiritual person,

not wearing this religion or waving that flag,

not even a mother or wife,

not nothing

not something either.

Earlier that day she met together with others

in sameness

with no thought

“We are the same”. Just meeting them

as that moment came along

then the next and the next,

like a good tap dancer

meets each moment of rhythm with matching feet.

Later (now)

reflection comes when sleep doesn’t.

She’s alone

and happy to be alone,

in bed with her lover, the night.

Alone with her friend,

a book which she smiles and cries at,

then remembers how to write from its

encouraging nudge.

The writing of it is for herself,

for later when she has forgotten the night, and the

tears and the

closeness of her Self.

And she believes it is for

all those imagined others

for whom this writing will be a tuning fork

that wakes their hum to

vibrations of sameness.

Oh right…

now she clarifies—

She is not even she.

But for the convenience of naming,

it trails along.


Qi Gong especially for the energy of this poem:


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