just tell me
coming to a lesson of life with pen in hand.
asking incessant and worrisome questions, like:
how does one live?
how do you bend the strings to form your life’s perfect cat’s cradle
without cutting off the circulation?
is this shape correct?
(I think there’s something at the center of it - do you see it, too?
no? oh. just my own fingers flexing in fear.)
well…then, what should I feel now?
(and why don’t I feel it?)
fine, next question:
how do you sing, when you know they can hear you?
how do you dance?
how are you breathing?
like this?
no, watch me again - like this?
lights in the room, out.
too many chairs here; too much space;
too much blank paper, unfilled by answers -
and how can we leave,
when we don’t even know
what we’re walking into?
we’ll stay, then,
until we know better.
“life must be lived correctly or else not at all.”
isn’t that right?
please - just tell me if it’s right.
just tell me what answer
to write down.