There was the day we fell

bleeding and broken

down Grandfather Mountain.

And the day I argued with my father

about the place of guns in society.                                                                            

And the day I wept like a child in public

watching my girlfriend drive away

to escape what I had become to her; “clingy.”                                                        

 

and I felt lost because for me she was freedom

(or at least had a car).                         

 

There was the morning I was born,   

and the year I was into post-hardcore bands.                

and the night I was the winner of a fat-lip and a hangover

    both well deserved,

    yet met with Mercy and a place to sleep.

.  .  .

Then there was someone else I met,   

whose face and voice I can’t forget,   

and the memory of him                                      

is like the rallying cry of the gentlest prophet,                          

 

or maybe he is something I just use                   

to steady my gaze on something not myself.                                                

.  .  .

Happiness, Clive says,                                      

Is a gift. Don’t go confusing the gift with the giver,

And, for the love of God,

don’t act like you made it for yourself.

 

Don’t fake it, Don’t fake it, Don’t fake it—,    

 

And even when you do, you will keep searching for it         

everywhere, for years,   

while right behind you,   

the footprints you are leaving                                        

 

will look like dance steps.

Adapted from “How it Adds up” by Tony Hoagland