Givens

 by Joanna Klink

We were given a book, and the book stripped

the world down to dirt and to rain, captivity, 

color. The sky must have followed us

into the grove where we sat and felt happy

that the grasses were empty, the olive trees empty.

We were given some salt, a warehouse, a river,

and when we rose the birds stayed

with us all night. If you were given a burden,

if you were given a rock, an omen, would you know

it too could go missing, it too could be broken.

If you knew just what you were given, would the ache

break out of it. Would it help you. Would you open.

 

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You were given a book and inside the book

was a road leading to orchards and snow,

tiny dustings of sun. You must have

followed the flashlights and felt you'd been offered

proof, or else hope, which itself is not simple.

There are great bays in the thoughts of old men,

there are winds that break leaves into cool wheels of shade.

You were given a latchkey, an x-ray, you were given

the means to fly and the means not to crawl.

Why would you even listen for trains or pay attention 

to branches. Why would you root into yourself

when the rain could, any moment, coax light into color.

 

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I was given a book. I was given two bells

to make a pact with the air. I was given

the smell of new rain, a small stack of paper,

some gold leaf and glue. If you were given some yarn,

some wire, if you were given a whole night of snow,

would you even know how to hold it.

Go easy on that old red oak. Go easy

on the man at the corner who just asked for money,

he is probably hungry, and what would he do

if he were given a boat, a breeze, and what would he

usher into himself if he thought life would help him.