The Phoenix
Bit by heavenly bit,
I overcome the rules
of flight and gravity
and life and death.
I plunge from dizzy
heights, alone
unknown,
dependent on
my memories,
off-kilter, lax,
no context
to the flames.
I do not aim to be
askew or split
myself apart from all
I care to join, but why
resist? Nor do I try
to be myself,
too little known,
dependent on old
magic. What happens
is what’s born
and comes to pass
and passes on.
An inkling
isn’t certainty.
I can’t endure
through ages on a whim.
I find myself
wrapped in the time
and place I’ve lost
a hundred times
before, am ashen
from the fear
I will be too
used up by hopeless
wandering to ever
reach the point,
and then I see
an end. The phoenix
does not choose to be
consumed, and dreads
each death as if
there were no rising.
Philip Wexler lives in Bethesda, MD. He recently retired from the U.S. National Library of Medicine. He has had over 150 of his poems published in magazines over the years. He also organizes a free monthly spoken word series, Words out Loud, at Glen Echo Park in Glen Echo, Maryland.