Adverbial Paradoxes

Yes

It’s the high-five of words

with a swish of sound,

an affirmation of what is

and what might come.

In one small breath,

it can change us with its pledge.

Its covenant, sometimes superstitious,

like crossing one’s heart

or kissing the Book,

locks us to the future.

Yes is the adverbial wishbone of fate,

an affidavit of hope,

washing, like a tidal wave,

politics into history,

geography into space.

No

We say it when all else fails,

and we are at nerve’s end.

It’s a proud word with an emphatic O

and said with light speed.

The exclamation bursts

like a dark fist from our tongues.

No is an unambiguous disclaimer,

shouting miles away from maybe,

light years from yes.

It’s a stubborn word

bellowing from the larynx and oral cavity.

Yet, no needs repeating

like learning a foreign language

or the multiplication table for the first time.

It’s a saucy adverb,

the least breath of sound,

smarting like jalapeños against the palate,

and it leaves no doubt.

Maybe

It’s a word full of promise, a word like sex

ringing with possibility

like a second, sidelong glance,

a cousin of perhaps, a distant relative of chance

with no present, without guarantee,

a nondescript meaning with a built-in mortality

but more alluring than yes

and not as confident as no.

Maybe puts us on parole, sentencing us

with ellipses, hurling us into doubt

where imagination becomes as thrilling

as the goal itself.  It’s a word ready to lie,

an adverbial paradox full of hope.

It keeps us hungry, and we say it

to our children and loved ones

because it’s less harsh than no

but not quite yes, knowing all along

it will be one or the other.

“Maybe” was originally published in Poetry, 1992; “No” was originally published in Negative Capability, 1993; “No” received an award from the Illinois State Poetry Society in 1993; “Yes” was originally published in the California State Poetry Quarterly, 1994.