This Is Not a Park by Dana Hardy

 

This Is Not a Park

By Dana Hardy

 

I am not a jewel-encrusted beach.

Not a lunch that stays down. Not the clear lake you swim in.

I am not baby soft grass for you to walk through.

But I’ll offer a bench. A bridge.

A path through my many weeds.

A place to be human, or something close to one.

When a woman walks by with her baby

and asks you if he’s asleep, smile.

Shake your head. He’s not.

Close your eyes and swallow your own spit

and remember that to be human is to breathe and begin again.

You are the network of rivers that colors your cheeks

after a stormy cry. You are your liver, your kidneys,

all parts whispering to and cleansing one another.

And when they try to uproot your rough hair

and build bridges over the dip of your chin,

know how to shake your head

and hold fast to what is given to you:

spotted leaves and shallow water.

(All good homes to the right denizens.)

Be the steward of this beautiful life:

the shining white waters, the good, the bad,

and that which you have yet to clean.