[This is a poem by Amiri Baraka. A dear high school friend of mine, Sarah Liebman, showed it to me years and years ago, and it has always stuck with me. It is one of those pieces of art that says beautifully something I have never wanted to say, and part of my fascination with it has had to do with realizing that I have never wanted to say this, and still don’t, but that it is so simply and honestly put that I want to listen. Or maybe it is more accurate to say that I have wanted to say some of this, but not all; and I haven’t wanted to come to rest in the places this poem comes to rest.]
Lately, I’ve become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus…
Things have come to that.
And now, each night I count the stars.
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
And then last night I tiptoed up
To my daughter’s room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there…
Only she on her knees, peeking into
Her own clasped hands