Monsoon Season

We watch hate billow upward in the east
the way we analyze a coming storm,

reflexively picking up an umbrella
to shield ourselves from the worst wet,

ponder a sunnier day,
plan a night in

snuggled
by our tv,

curse the momentary inconvenience
of water waves in flooded streets,

the ineptitude of other drivers
who grew up here, too,

but seem to know less than we do
about how to drive in rain,

blithely ignore
building evidence of climate change

the way I fool myself into thinking
my meanness to you

on certain days
is a passing phase

having nothing to do
with punishing you

for those little things
I imagine you've done to me

because I didn't hear you say
you're hurting, too,

distracted,
slammed with life,

caught under the weight
of everyone's expectations

piled
on your own.

Perhaps it is unfair
to expect sunshine

in Israel
when I can't count on myself

to be nice
to the man I love

on a hard day
that didn't end in bloodshed.

Maybe I should fear
the increasing intensity of storms

in a desert state
whether or not my neighbors learn better how to drive.

Correlation
is causation

in a universe
where all is relative

and time
flows both ways.

Chaos creates order
when the tsunami crashes the butterfly's wings.

Responsibility reverses
time's tide.

It is the only thing
that can hold back the wave.

We can choose
not to let blood

the way I can bite my cutting tongue
in order to ask you

about your day
and listen to the rain

stop grief for a moment
at home.

In this way
I can expect the butterfly

to shuttle diplomacy
all the way

to the middle
east.

-- August 1, 2006, Albuquerque, NM, USA