When the sound of running water

becomes simply

the sound of running water

it is supposed to be enlightening.

Haikus are supposed to spring

spontaneously from my heart.

I am supposed to become humble

sweet

and manifest compassion for the world.

But I continue to suffer in blindness

resentful

that the sound of running water

is just the sound of running water.

I want it to thank me for listening.

I want to lie in it and float coolly

to a magic kingdom

where a prince will kiss my rosy lips.

But there are cockroaches in the kitchen,

Adam has an earache,

Noah says he’s “sad and blue.”

The hatred that hid in my heart

now flows freely through my veins,

blackening my blood,

frightening the children,

depressing my husband.

It says in the books,

“Become the sound of running water,”

but already there is nothing behind me and nothing ahead,

there is only today’s terrifying headline

announcing the catastrophe of what I am now.

Running water is no medicine.

Writing is no healing.

There is no healing.

From the Winter 1984 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 1, No. 2)

Text © 1984–2023 by Alia Johnson