what are you doing here

[Doreen Peri]

(2004)

i woke up crying on the side of the bed, absent diaries,
empty paged to assess scattered calendar markings ripped off pages,
months scribbled in dates, times marked on numbered squares

how many ways can i say it? is there any unique method to describe
the questioning of minutes? i am no philosopher, no fancy word weaver,
no articulate orator, no priestess. do you expect me to explain it better than you?

do you remember the moment when you knew? the moment you recognized
the tap of footsteps, each sole's rhythm reminding you tap tap, tap tap,
tap tap, tap tap, this is the pace, this is the pace, you will never be here again?

what are you doing here? what did you come to see? what do you want to hear?
do expect me to describe the moment to you? i am no historian, no clear channel
journalist, no mystic. i don't know why the old lady in the basement rants about

jack who used to rub her neck and shows me her amythest ring which he gave
her on their tenth anniversary at moss beach or why she talks to him and reaches
for his ghost or why she puts her coat on and paces the hall until her son harold
doesn't show. and how do i know why i listen to the souls?

how many ways can i say it? are there any new articulations? the old lady rants.
i feed her applesauce with an engraved silver spoon, wipe dribble from her chin,
diaper her before jack returns and stories rebegin. sleep buries ghosts then sunup
resurrects them. is there any unique method to describe the interrogation?

why the moment? why the recording of it? why the parchment skin? the etched
signatures around eyelids? how should i know how to answer stars light years dead?
what are you doing here? what did you come to see? what do you want to hear?

-dp - 3.9.2004