Three Haiku

Pelicans traverse

the gray expanse, like covered

wagons moving west.

The moon fell into

the brook behind our cabin

where its pieces shine.

You can be the wind

today. I'll be the brook—that 

small one most walk by.

Dream Mink

 

He owns the house.

He keeps the women.

I sneak inside

and meet them.

They like fun

and they like me

but we must not

be caught.

One is in

the form of a mink.

She and I

fall in love.

As we make

our escape, she tells me

I’ll sleep with you

only once

we’re married.

That’s not the way

I normally roll

but I’ll roll

that way now.

I don’t even know

what she’ll look like

when she turns into a woman.

We make it out.

I run down

a small hill on the lawn.

She’s at the top, behind,

when suddenly I turn.

Wait, I say.

If you come with me

will you let God

do everything?

I mean,

take care of it all?

She pauses.

(Most women

wouldn’t agree.)

I wait

for her reply.

‘Yes,’ she says,

‘I love you,’

then comes

bounding down the hill.

Hindu + Buddhist =

 

She’s a waitress

in New Delhi.

Her t-shirt says

IMPERFECTLY PERFECT.

She was Hindu.

He was Buddhist.

They married

not by arrangement,

but for love.

No big wedding. No gifts. No family.

Two friends

witnessed.

Sometime later, feeling low,

she finds peace

with a friend

in a church.

Her family disapproves.

She becomes confused.

She prays for guidance.

In the church

with her friend

she finds peace again.

Something

inside

feels right

for her.

Why are you a Christian now?

“Because I am in love with Jesus.”

Her English is imperfect.

You’re supposed to say,

“Because I love Jesus.”

But I swear she says it

perfectly:

Her smile could split

the clouds apart.

Her eyes are dark

with diamonds inside.

The Authentic Voice

 

I wrote, “Great to hear from you,”

but it wasn’t, so I deleted that.

Then I wondered whether it was wonderful.

No. That would also be a stretch.

There were no sparkling lights,

no soaring feeling in the chest.

This person deserved the truth.

Perhaps it was cool.

“Cool to hear from you.”

What does that even mean?

One thing I knew for sure:

It wasn’t awesome.

They were not God or the Grand Canyon.

It was good to get that one off the table.

I briefly considered “swell,”

thinking it might be endearingly quirky,

or ironic, or something like that.

But “swell” would require either an explanation,

or yet further, more overt quirkiness

to make sure they didn’t just think I was weird.

Finally, I settled on “good.”

Surely it was plain old good to hear from them.

But by then, it no longer was. 

rain gathers, softens

rain gathers, softens

and spills, while

truck drivers sing

in their lonely cabs

 

and you,

bending down now

to gather it all

in a mason jar

 

what if we treated

everything

as extra—

as if our souls

had come to earth

the way

you and I

would go to a fair.