From the Fishouse

Oh yes, I believed in rewards, white steeds, crossed
fingers. But now? Give me the moon’s
agitation, its fits and starts,

its hoodwinking heart. See how it pretends
to finish, only to rub out the canvas
and invent itself

again. Clouds do not stay still; the seasons
are not idle. What good has patience
done the glaciers?

The forests? Our planet’s taut spool unravels
into feverish tsunami, unhinging of earthquake,
hurricanes eyeing

coastlines. I, too, am through with put it on ice,
the back burner, sit tight, stand by,
chill. I’m done twiddling

thumbs, holding horses. Excessive lingering
is just loitering. Along with her sister
Prudence, Patience lies

in wait, two ladies-in-waiting, twin pillars of time
lost, useless as the hours I squandered
with mops, nights

I didn’t read to my children, days I didn’t pick up
a pen, and all the years I should have danced
in sequins on rooftops.

There’s no passion in patience, just the wrapped mummy
of indifference. I don’t trust anything
that doesn’t fidget. Landmines

bide their time. Tarantulas lie low. The waiting game
is only a stay of execution. Neruda says,
“I beg you, leave me

restless.” It’s the twitch of rudder that sets the river rippling.
I want the itch, the upset, apple carts overturned. I want
the heaving of oceans,

memories somersaulting in a frenzy from attic trunks,
the way words rush out, and love—
with its careless tumble of hands.