∴

little red circles in long red lines
beat in and out along her spine

there’s a tightness now
where absence lived
there’s a taking now
where she’d usually give

give in

give out

outlive fear

outlive doubt

no
stop
red
stop
throb
stop
pulse
·
go
strong
breathe
long
life’s
impulse

to live.
to keep on
living.

and if not in flesh
then in word and song

for all that she is
is all that belongs –
it’s more than life-long –

and it seeps into sound
like blood-let drop-lets seeded in the ground.

beat
stop
red
stop
pulse
stop

breathe

∴

∴

o Gentle Stream

do not evade me this day.

you, who smirking, gently strolls

through hidden thickets of deep woods,

you, who winking, coyly dips

under deceptively smooth horizons

of green fields,

let me come near.

o Gentle, unnoticed Stream,

let me walk beside you this day

for if to walk

is to walk alone

then let the cradle of your quiet current

be my guide

and my lullaby for sounder sleep.

and let me take drink

and let me take clean

and let me take cool

and let me take new

all the wealth that is in you,

unseen.

o Gentle, promising, simple Stream

may i take course with you?

may i drown in your dream?

∴

∴

there are too many unbelievable things.
it would be foolish to think they’re all real…

but this, i believe

though i cannot see you
when i search,

though i cannot touch you
when my arms are heavy
with empty weight,

though i cannot taste you
when i am famished by the day,

though i cannot hear you
when i strain in silence,

just knowing that you ARE
i am filled with hope
and thanksgiving

that is an unbelievable thing
and yet,

it is.

∴

give me the time
and i’ll tell you no lies
even if truth is the start of demise

but what was ruined, really?
by making things clear?

so we insulted identity –
we backlit fear –

for the shadow truth casts
reveals the real
shape of things

and when real confronts ideals
damn, it burns.
man, it stings.

but there we are,
at last
building with bricks that might finally hold fast

if we choose to build

-do we choose to build?

‘cause the same bricks that stack
can be thrown
and thus, stilled.

and then what?
what then?
we begrudge tripping bricks
for what should’ve been?

what could’ve been?

give me the time
and i’ll tell you no lies.
all my perfect shortcomings
come out through my eyes.

if you keep turning tail
when honesty comes,
you’ll never be closer
than the distance you run.

if you keep making truth conform to perfection
you’ll set us both up for endless dejection

(you can’t undo past with the means of suggestion.)

give me the time
and i’ll tell you no lies.
give me some faith and you might be surprised.

i’m broken, i’m ugly
i’m wickedly mean
but i also have heart like you’ve never dreamed.

no
i won’t live up
to a life you judge couth;

no
i won’t give up
not in the face of hard truths

i will fight to the end with all that i’ve got
i’ll give you all that i have
to buy out all that i’m not.

give me the time
and i’ll tell you no lies.
but i won’t live in fear
or under disguise
i will not reduce or embellish my size

so –

that brick in your hand,
though i put it there,
will you build with me?
will you foolishly dare?

give me the time
and i’ll tell you no lies
i will gamble my goodness
if wholeness is prize.

---

Dear Love,

Today I shall talk to you as though you were a person. For indeed, you exist as full and affecting as any human I’ve ever known. You, love, in fact, are so influential that you have caused us feeble people to rise up, fall down, spin in circles, and twist ourselves in knots trying to obtain you, or at least, to be near to you.

Dear love, I thought we should clarify your expectations of me, as I’ve been feeling a little misunderstood. For you, and in honor of all the amazing things you do, you may ask of me the following:

To endure pain. I will. You may ask me to suffer your absence. I will. You may ask me to feel elation. I look forward to it. You may ask me to feel dizzy and tingly and you may ask me to smile for no reason at all. I will. You may rouse me in the middle of the night and open into me like a star-crossed dream. I will acquiesce and envelop in return. You may ask me to laugh. You may ask me to cry. You may ask me to feel fear of loss. You may ask me to feel indestructible gain. You may ask me to plan futures and you may ask me to reminisce the past. You may ask me to fall into the present like a tidal pool and swirl in the intoxication of now. You may ask me to bend, you may demand me to break. You may ask me to stand still and watch and wait in held breath and wanting. You may ask me to wear every one of your colors in a messy kaleidoscope of flesh and bone, spirit and soul,

but there is one thing you may not ask of me:

to feel nothing at all.

That I will not do.

 

Not even for Love.

---

∴

it is possible for “home” to turn into
an odd conglomerate
of shape,
shadow,
and edge

wherein you do not recognize
the corners
and the rooms they round into.

they surprise you
as if you didn’t know they’d lead that way.

·

how strange old clothes can feel
once you take note of their fit –
an ease you accepted
as “your” size –

how long have they been so baggy?
was i always wearing them this tight?
how could i not notice the holes
that have worn right through?

you can see the skin.

·

did i put this here?
did i hang this on the wall?
did i decide this would be the best –
the right –
color
to see every morning upon waking?

i did.

i remember
it took so much of my attention.
i recall the effort –
the planning and sweat –
that it takes
to build a wall

and then make it so lovely
you forget
that it is

a wall.

·

well…
you almost forget.

∴

∴

i have a memory of peace.

it stands
like a worn out myth
in the face of tomorrow’s
new religion.

i wonder if it really did happen.
i want to believe it did;
for then i could return
to trusty spells
and old incantations;
i could conjure it
once again.

(couldn’t i?)

·

till the earth
and strike a match,
cook your aromatics,
tie stout knots in yarn and twine
and read
the old romantics.

(no. no, it’s not working, anymore…)

·

“believe again,”
i tell myself
“slow down,
it’s slipping past you.
you were happy here, once.
remember?
you were happy, here.
once.”

but our little gods –
peace in pieces –
die.

they return to marble and canvas portals –
paint and chisel relics –
where they give evidence of having been;
(or at least, having been possible.)

·

they send like postcards
from Atlantis,
like love songs from middle-earth,
writing, singing, temping, teasing:

“i am real like fog.
you come into me and wonder
when i’ll enter you.

but this i do not do.

i will elude and i’ll encompass,
i will beckon and i will shroud,
and there is no end of me.
drink my milk elixir
and swim my clouded sea,
but stay too long
and you shall lose
the real
in reality.”

∴

∴

i’m quite sure it’s better
not to want.

for if you want
you may miss
and if you miss
you may long
and if you long
you may feel an ache
that cannot be soothed

and you’ll walk around trying to undo
the want that started it all
like a knot
that won’t pull through
or let loose

i’m quite sure, yes,
it’s better not to want.

for if you get it
(what you want)
you may fear losing it
and if you don’t
you may dread the days without it

yes, it’s best
best not to want.

so i stretch a wool scarf upon my shoulders
like an old woman in her shawl;
it will keep the chill out –
it will keep some warmth in –
that’s all i should need –

yes,
that’s all
i need,

just –

don’t want.

∴

∴

somewhere,
under water,
beneath blue,
in waves of light

i float with you

·

we’re weightless motion
making the shape of arcs.

we bridge one to the other
and back again.

under ice, we embrace.

there’s a vacuum of time
and there’s limitless space.

and in that somewhere,
there’s a peace
that comes,
so surprising and strange
like the smell of roses
on winters wind.

it fills us –
like only peace can fill us –
when we remember
that spring will come again

it must.
it must.
it’s in its nature to arrive,
despite the cold.

eternal green,
earth unseen,
bring me sight of sun.
for i can feel the roses in you
forcing buds undone.

give me thorn to prick my reason,
give me heat to melt old seasons,
and break the ice
in our blue somewheres
that we might shape our arcs again
in warmer, open air.

∴