but how long will i stay gone?

a poem

i remember the time my mother’s hospice bed grew fins and swam her into the sea
i survived that send-off
i didn’t turn into mist and disappear
i remember that time when i meditated in the snow during a snowstorm
even though i’m afraid of the cold
it was dark and i was lost but still
i survived that chilly calm
i didn’t turn into ice and shatter
i made it home
but now, now is different
now i hot-air balloon my grief to a new place above the Milky Way, where my terror erupts larger than a red supergiant, where my wicker basket hurts even with this buoyancy, i can not be warmed enough, even by this heated air, even in this high altitude, 3,000 feet high, i am the open flame, i am the burning liquid propane and i can take the heat just fine when i’m alone — away from the reminders of now— away from the noise of now —away from the sacred suffering of what it is to be human now
instead
i want to watch the music of the dancing light through the treetops
i want to learn something new and good and not forget it
i want to live inside a happy lucid dream
to be gone - but not forever
just long enough to miss everyone i’ve ever known
but not ache too much about it