When I cry

When I cry

I cry from the beautiful

destruction of my life

the tearing down

and tearing down

and disintegration

of what I was

and what I've known.

I cry of what is unique

in this world, of sameness

of ideas gone wild until

there is no sense

in maniacal laughter

in having no breath

the morning after

the scent of death

and ash and river

and pyre

of course the fire

and monkeys.

Monkeys.

I lost the back of my earring

three years ago 

in Kathmandu the power outage

blinded me

and I banged the side of my head

on the doorway and I heard it, 

the ping ping ping

of my earring

bouncing across the tile until

it disappeared into the drain

and I smiled, knowing

I'd touch the place

where it should be

the beautiful destruction

here with me