When the sound of running water
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
and manifest compassion for the world.
But I continue to suffer in blindness
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.