The Oracle

Plato had his cave, Sartre his Nausea,
Catullus had Clodia, Vargas Llosa his cathedral.
Lispector and Kafka had their cockroaches.
Hildegaard had her crystals and green wisdom.

I’ll leave you boxes, envelopes, bins, empty shelves,
neatly stacked cupboards, bare walls.
A force fed force of dry grains,
a granary of cans and jars.

The 11^th edition of the OED has always been to my liking.
Today it is 110 years old.
This knowledge we leave behind.
This knowledge we take with us.

“Some oracle must rectify our knowledge.”—The Tempest

[RK, 2/22/21]

Doubt

Those awkward footsteps follow me
through days of light and laughter.

Seriously, I can’t grasp the happiness.
Questions about self-esteem come into play.

Long ago doubt was vanquished with
wonderful commission checks for the artwork.

Our bi-weekly adult report cards
played close to the chest.

This too, turned out to be a sham,
albeit a fourteen-year-long sham.

Nothing can erase the tingling
at the back of my wrinkled neck.

You would think I would know better.
Yes, I know better. I know better.

“He was expected then, but not approached.”—Cymbeline

[RK, 2/22/21]