Audio: Read by the author.
The lives of others have a point and aim.
Each stage prepares them for the one to come.
They know the rules, and how to play the game.
Their calculations yield a tidy sum
My opportunities were premature,
Or late. My deepest love went undeclared.
I hesitated when I could be sure.
I should have been more cautious when I dared.
And so our talents, dormant, pregnant, wait;
Our wisdom deepens and accumulates;
Until the day when finally we stare
Death in the face. Was all this heaven’s share,
And not our own? For this alone makes sense:
The heretofore is nothing to the hence.
Andrew Sorokowski was born in Hartford, Connecticut, and grew up in San Francisco. He has worked as a writer, researcher, teacher, and editor. His translations of the Ukrainian poet Natalka Bilotserkivets have appeared in Subprimal Poetry Art and Peacock.
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.