Sleeping with Butler’s Lives of the Saints

After Octavio Paz

What’s most human must drive
an arrow to the heart.
 
Ghosts, too, must abide by this directive
& remain transparent,
 
going about their business in old houses.
Before I was an I, I longed to be ethereal.
 
Sprouting wings at will & gliding through
cul-de-sacs and malls around the valley.
 
My hands, too, would gradually disappear
followed by my arms, then neck & head
 
until my whole body was slight as allergen.
Before I was an I, I spoke an old language
 
that would return on drowsy afternoons.
Therefore I struggled to say
 
the simplest sentences. So much so
that the maligned semicolon
 
became an ardent ally, an island
of pause and the deep breath.
 
The comma, too, bless its tiny soul,
was the crumb which the god
 
of small favors multiplied
tenfold for my morning pie.
 
Before I was an I, knowledge
clung to me like burrs & hunger
 
guided my ship like the barefoot light
on the sleeping land & sea.