by Celeste Labadie
It’s a conspiracy,
someone said,
but I’ve done this myself.
I’m collecting things.
Drowning in stuff.
Clinging to memories while
packing and repacking what
I’ll surely leave behind
when the big whatever
has its way with this corporeal sensibility.
When I no longer identify with this body.
When I no longer believe my emotions are me
and when I’m no longer worried
about missing a call.
I’m phoning Om,
Wondering when I signed on
the dotted line
for this disease of busyness.
Trying to remember where I put that day,
that hour
that memory of how I first met love
on the back porch.
I’m packing it up.
Throwing some out.
Labeling the way
for the great unpacking
when it all turns to dust,
floats away,
and burns.
Cashed in on the illusion
that anything
or anyone
is guaranteed.
Celeste Labadie, 2005
merryceleste@yahoo.com
