April 12: Rituals

Evening on the football field
is purple and gold, clouds settling
around goalposts and hills, the orb
of sun resting precariously on horizon.
Me, in the business of finding joy,

standing amidst high socks and studs,
even grass and kicks, hair desperately
pulled back and held with bands and clips.
Oversized t-shirt and oversized shorts, oversized
heart and smile in minute body of skin and bones.
Me, in the business of desperately holding on to
joy instead of sorrow, finding meaningless rituals
to anchor myself against so I don't float away.
Breakfast every day, and class on time - 6 pm
on the field, convinced to run, clench teeth and
fists, hear heartbeat thudding in it's fragile cage.

Sometimes
I regret that I can hold on to meaning
only through these rituals. Perhaps I should
throw my computer, have conversations only
when they are truly meaningful, and eat when
I'm hungry, not when I'm supposed to. Rituals
are a desperation instead of a reclamation. I did
belong to effortless truth all my life - I'm not yet
used to working for joy. To discipline and dates.

Sometimes
the evening surprises me, and standing on a field
surrounded by skies of purple and gold, truth comes
effortlessly, in a continual gust of wind that pulls my
hair out of its tangle and my heart out of its cages, it
seems to be calling my name, a single vowel of longing
etched across the clouds - running and passing, I notice
myself smiling. The shadow of the wind tousles my hair
even when the gust is past. The shadow of a smile stays.
I will have dinner after a bath, and then I will work. I will
sleep before it's too late, and embrace the ferris wheel of
everlasting days.