Some of the ReasonsBy Dana Yost
I am still alive.
Some days, this surprises me,
like when I pass a mirror
and see full flesh, dark hair
and spectacles upon my nose.
That’s me, I might say,
as if it could be someone else.
That’s not the point.
This is: maybe there wouldn’t have been anyone
in that mirror.
I could have been under dirt,
mortician’s clean-up job not perfectly
resolving the gashes up my arms,
the lipstick of my mother’s kiss
to the forehead
long faded to something like a stain
on a filthy found-on-a-café-floor napkin.
But here I am.
I wave to myself,
and it waves back.
No trick mirror,
no time machine.
But science, faith, sunshine, time.
The chance of stirring a heron
from the fringes of Bear Lake.
Pumpkin pie, melting ice cream.
Neighbor’s little white dog, yapping like just-married tin cans
tied to someone’s bumper flapping down the road.
Then silence: it’s licking my nose.
A brown-haired singer on a Sunday morning
with her acoustic guitar,
voice true and longing,
there is beauty
in the silence
between the notes.