∴
i have come to know
that it is not just
the passage of time
that heals all wounds.
for indeed,
even broken bones
can stay
ensconced in the flesh,
fragmented and useless,
though seemingly smooth.
so it is
with the un-splintered
spiritual fractures
we endure,
but treat only
with silence,
and poultice
with neglect.
∴
∴
you hurt me, and i hurt you.
we both betrayed
the love we knew.
but all this pain
is evidence
of fighting for
love’s recompense.
we lost.
we strove
to start anew.
but i want my “new”
to be with you.
you,
who slowly
broke my spirit,
who i quickly taught
to loathe and fear it.
you,
whose life and home i shared.
you and i,
divinely paired,
and aching
over time;
these old laugh lines,
more refined.
you,
from whom i’ve hid my face;
you,
who standing,
spurned embrace,
i choose
and choose
and choose again,
you,
my start,
my road,
and end.
∴
∴
it has finally occurred to me –
after far too much time
spent
doing
far too many things
that neither brought joy,
nor rest,
nor satisfaction –
that the only thing
i have ever really aspired
to have,
or
be,
or
build
and not break,
or be broken by,
is
love.
∴
∴
loneliness can incite religiousness
in a person for all the wrong reasons.
so too,
fear is a zealot
by trade.
but this god was not
the God i knew –
he’s the god i got
when i blindly grew
into my age
and “good” identity.
i left the sage
when safety sent for me.
when god became a man
to whom i could obey,
i left that Blessed Woman
in all her starry spray
i traded her for caution
and comfort under roofs
and inoculate protection
became my divine proofs –
hell –
i must be doing
something right…
…right?
but i am seeing clearer now.
return to me
my holy words,
unholy as i’ve been,
and render me
with new sight made
as only heaven sends.
∴
∴
what is lost in hope
gains in apathy.
’tis a slippery slope;
to give up, affably.
∴
∴
there are bubbles in view.
i’m reclining in dark, indoor rooms
and my children are out –
i can hear them through the screens –
blowing the clear spheres
up into view,
above the gridded panes of my study,
so they should dance in the somber pre-storm breeze.
Grandma naps in the nooks of the home.
dinner will need to be made soon.
i remember this more than anything, as a child:
just peeling out of midday slumbers
and hearing the tin snap and slide of knives
being stacked upon themselves,
and a smell of onions sizzling –
as that’s the base of,
well,
everything –
it makes you cry
to cut,
but everything tastes better for it.
this, i think,
is freedom,
as we humans have fought for it
for eons:
to cook onions
and watch children make bubbles,
and listen from solemn, secret places
while the corn grows tall into summer.
it is not an ambitious goal,
when you think of it,
but nearly incapable of keeping
through the years.
it’s as if freedom calls upon strife,
not knowing its simple miracle
and forgetting
that it was earned
in harder times
and by a hurting-er people.
∴
∴
i have no poetry for this gladness.
only the telling of the day
as it is:
i am half-lucid from pain
and the meds that take it away.
i am elevated from the waist up
and buried above the neck in sleep.
i rise for 30 minutes at a time
to water flowers
and make sure the growing things
are fed,
then fall back into hazes on the couch,
like lovers’ embraces that stop time.
i imagine being a pearl,
held
by one who is glad
to hold me –
who was made to hold me –
and in whose arms
i truly rest.
i can overhear
the best sounds;
the ones that are more healing to the soul
than any pill could be:
the kitchen table,
moving legs,
clacking wood to wood,
and the clink of coffee cups,
that rest and launch from the counter,
until cooled or empty.
i hear my parents –
the ones who i came through –
talking about the times
that Were
interrupted by my children –
the ones who came through me –
who can’t stop erupting
over the times that Will be.
possibility,
as seen by the young,
is loud…
it wakes me up,
sometimes.
∴
∴
the well is sand and echo.
i pull and heave on these chains
that were said to be endless quenching;
but only the creek
of pulleys
and the strain of wood
that holds them,
comes up
and up
and up.
i beat on the chest of stone statues
to get water from that rock;
but they are dry
dry
dry.
i stare at brown leaves
that i picked up
when falling in love.
and i pinned them to my wall
like fallen monarchs,
migrating home
and lost along the way.
give me a smile,
give me a saint,
give me a laugh
i can’t keep in constraints.
give me a deluge,
give me a drop,
give me a sign
that this drought will stop.
but nothing is promised, really.
and nothing is ever deserved.
i know this now.
it’s time i cut my own divining rod,
and build a sturdier bucket.
∴
∴
my love,
it is my character that i have fallen out of trust with.
not you.
isn’t it just so?
that when we fall short of the person
we thought ourselves to be,
everyone then,
becomes less heightened, too.
as if by the measure of self,
our compatriots in life –
who might give second chances
or who could
(they most likely would)
forgive –
are stunted
and mute
by our making.
∴
∴
there is a beauty
to the living
that the inanimate
cannot own.
to breathe and be imperfect
is so much more captivating
than to consummately stay,
soulless and pristine.
and oh,
when we come together
in abundance;
what impermanent,
and rare,
precious,
glory.
∴
