Tag: jeremiah ray poet

the driftwood was sun-bleached &
tangled in seaweed.
it looked like the jawbone of a giant
that a god more prominent
than we can ever fathom
threw upon the beach.
to be a child again
and have such whimsical thoughts once more.
to believe in giants
and gods.
and a God
‘i am a man,’ i think.
‘i am an adult,’ i think.
it’s not about giants hurling
jawbones upon an empty beach.
it’s about storms and tides,
saltwater and the sun.
i continue to stroll the barren shore.
it is autumn,
and the cold wind keeps
most people away.
i come upon a teepee-like structure.
it was hastily constructed,
obviously the work of kids;
tourists, no doubt,
here for the summer – here for a day
on the coast of Maine.
i place my rainjacket on the sandy ground
inside the structure
and crawl in.
‘here,’ i think,
‘this is where i will wait for those giants.
this is where i will wait for God.’

it is no longer
about the bracelet;
the one i bought as a gift
to give to you,
insisting it was out of friendship.
the one i said
wouldn’t be awkward.
and it wasn’t,
because i didn’t give it to you.
it is no longer
about the unwrapped box,
tiny and delicate,
sitting at the bottom of my rucksack;
a box i might
let sit there for a few months
or even for a few years.
i couldn’t leave fast enough,
which is a weird feeling.
i remember thinking,
‘please let the weather be ok
so i can make the 1-hour flight.’
of course, i could take
the 12-hour bus ride;
but that would give me more time
to think about the stranger
for whom i bought a bracelet.
i made the flight,
the weather was fine.
when my rucksack came
down the luggage slide
i inadvertently blessed myself
even though i partly wished
the unwrapped box would be
gone from my life;
a piece of luggage i wouldn’t claim.