Our lives are hard to know
by Maya Muir
your weather balmy, mine a tornado and me
inside it. Forecast changing daily. How translate?
No is yes in Greek. Language like old lace, full
of holes, easily torn. When we meet, which you
is it?
Our lives—a comedy featuring anonymous donors,
drive-ins and drive-bys. Do we aquiesce
from enthusiasm or blackmail, estrogen
or amour? You harden around your wounds
as if they were pearls. I want to turn myself
inside out like a pocket, but I don’t know how.
Our lives—vertical as well as horizontal.
Some days the gods pick us up and put us down
elsewhere. Avalanche, corporate transfer,
eruption of magma. Simultaneous translators
all on vacation. Even Jung, when he grew clumsy,
apologized to his pots and pans.
Two people meet, argue, make love
and separate. That’s the story line. More true:
it was spring, rain woke up odors of daphne
and exhaust. Sunrise was a symphony, sunset
a fadeaway.
Maya Muir has worked as a freelance journalist and book reviewer. She has published in publications like Green Mountains Review, The Ravens Perch, Calyx, Clackamas Literary Review, and Abandoned Mine. She has been the recipient of an Oregon Literary Arts Fellowship and lives in Portland, Oregon, home of inflatable frogs.