“All of it”

by Gabriel Arquilevich

The trouble with now is that
sometimes I feel
I’m too many people I’m not:

I’m talking stocks
and I’m not.

I’m mowing the lawn
but shouldn’t I be

running my hand along the walls of a hut,
my stores shelved, peaceful – or at least
talking truly? Look:

I’m grading papers
and I’m not.

I’m sweeping the pool
and I’m not.

At least I know I’m somebody’s husband
and somebody’s friend, and those kids
call me dad, serving grilled cheese

when the phone rings
and the past touches the kitchen. And I imagine

it could have gone a number of ways:

It might be another family
and more of the problems of living

and the love

and all of it.

I might be lonely again, longing
for the children I don’t have, for the chairs

the guy’s unfolding, the way his son
kicks the ball, the way he says he’s always wide open.

I might be living in a van,
shouldering my pack for a few nights in the canyon

or writing other poems
with one voice instead of

all this
shuffling, wiping sand from my feet

as I sit at the desktop. At least I know
I’m here, sometimes true,

sometimes really –
at least sometimes

not becoming. And one day, who knows,
I might find myself whole.

And I will finally understand
why Arjuna strung his bow

when he saw

all of it.