The true answer to the quest

Who am I?
         ->Ask not who, but what.
What am I?
        ->Ask not what, but why.
Why do I exist?
        ->Have you no sense? Ask not why, but how!
How do I exist?
        ->What matters how? Most important of all is not what nor why nor how, but simply "who."
So, who are you?
        ->Finally, a question worth answering. Let's discuss.

Cat in the sun

The stripes fall on the wall
and my eyes light up.
I'm pressed against the cool, white plaster
feeling the soft touch of sun
for the first time in months--
not that it's the first sunshine I've seen
in months
but rather that it's the first time
I've had morning sun in my home
as my last apartment was a cave
And this, though still mostly unsettled,
is my new home, and it
has sun
in the mornings,
which makes me happy.
The stripes move, brighten, and
I notice another patch on the floor.
Excuse me while I lay here for a while.

Delicious

Finding a taste sweeter than water
is a hallmark of either
taste-bud impairment
from sugar-poisoning,
most excellent tea,
or just foul water.

By Choice

It's not that I can't see a future without you--
it would be possible; I could make it work.
It just doesn't look as grand to me.
It's not that I can't survive without you--
I could; I'm more than a bit hardy.
I just don't want to need to try.
It's not that the world is dark without you--
but the lights are lovelier with you,
and I just don't want to go alone.

So, no, I don't need you in my life.
I just want you there. For all the rest of it.
Because I can flourish, survive, enjoy
all I have, by myself, and it would still be good--
I just choose not to, because I like what I see
better when you're in it.
Which is what I always wanted from love,
someone I chose to be with, not because
I had to, or needed to, or was afraid not to,
but because I wanted to.
There is no love truer than that.

Somewhat...

it's not
that the world hasn't changed.
Or that things aren't better,
because they are, somewhat.

But
the other day Dad and I were
talking politics, and Mom was
listening,
and after he went on about money
and how the world can't be fixed
without it, and lies and broken promises;
and I went on about unfairness,
and how politicians portray
women and act like women
are obstacles or less than
people; and Dad countered
with business and economy and
encouraging job growth would give
women power and money, and
I said it still didn't outweigh the
hate...
After that, when Mom caught
my eye and then grimaced and
with a sad voice said, "I never
thought I'd hear my daughter
fighting the exact same battles
I fought at her age," that was when
I knew
that darkness of soul doesn't leave
this Earth quietly, or quickly
but lingers long past its welcome.

And I'll remember, when my
daughters fight the same fight I
argue today--I'll remember that
no one told me I had to be a secretary
or that I shouldn't bother with college--
I'll remember that Dad married Mom
on purpose; that he helped teach me
to trust myself, to earn for myself,
to learn my own mind, and to make
my own world mine; I'll remember
things are better, but
at the same time, they're not fixed,
and probably won't be in a lifetime,
and that doesn't mean I've failed,
only that the world has, just a little,
just as it's also won, just a little.

Runny frosting and crumby cake

Drips of frosting
roll down the cracks
in lemon cake and pool
on the plate beneath. My
spatula scrapes the skin off
the cake, but the sweet lemon
taste can't be ruined by crumbs,
and if it looks a little worn, it's still
the loveliest taste.

After a restless night

One of those mornings
where dreams still crawl across the backs
of my eyelids and gravity sits too high
up my chest--
When sleep was fitful and clingy, and
morning came too early, taunting in her
bloody, slow approach, with her rays
of first light gleaming slowly over a horizon
I'd rather not have seen, and her colors
hidden by a snatch of last-minute sleep
that was in turn obscured by the buzzing phone.
One of those mornings.
I creep along in traffic with a million other
ants heading to our respective hills, and
feel the weight of too-short sleep in my arms,
at the back of my head, in my stomach floating
too close to the back of my throat in the shade
of the trees that line the highway. But then
the road bends, and the trees part. A slice
of early light slips through, and trickles up
my arm to wash my face of early shadows,
pouring warmth along my cheekbone.
One of those mornings, but now I think
I'm okay.