IF YOU DANCED FROM MIDNIGHT
after a first line by Anne Sexton
until Thursday next week,
four days straight, you’d make front page
news on some small town newspaper in the Midwest.
If you decided on Holy Week
to forgive your parents and yourself and staged
a play in which you presented a utopia
where only love exists, you’d be called naïve
but able to sleep at night. If you went on a binge
and attempted to drink five gallons of sangria
while playing tennis in the rain, you’d heave
until you passed out on the bathroom floor.
If you let each season enter your soul—spring, a robin;
summer, a rose; fall, a yellow leaf; winter, a cold wind—
then when death came to call, you’d be able to let go
and say, “I’m yours.”
About the Author
Born and raised on the third coast, Michigan, David James has published seven books and has had more than thirty one-act plays produced throughout the country. After 45 years of working in higher education, he retired in 2022 and is loving it.
