spring

i feel i haven’t spoken in a while,
haven’t let my fingers smile, haven’t
let my thoughts run skittering throughout this creaking house. All pent up
within a box, thoughts as sharp as slivered rocks, rocking all my inner
being with a meaning I can’t find.
is it all just in my mind?
it is all just in my mind?
is it really in my mind?
can it be real in my mind?
i can’t find the inner meaning to the beating of my soul.
i can’t find the one retreating to the throbbing of the toll.
i can’t find my eyes repeating all the words that I just saw.
i can’t find the things I wanted when I woke up in the thaw-
ing grass,
so sharp and yet so sweetly, softly calling to
the children that are sleeping in our bodies. Can you
hear it call?
to waken you
from scheming how to call it all your own? ‘Bout time you’re
coming home.
it’s time you’re coming home.
this never was your own,
never is your own,
but darling, do come home.

coming.
come in.

darling, do come home,

this is home. 

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 :::{the authoress}:::
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it’s nice to feel like

the words I have to give are
meaningful to you. 

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 :::{the authoress}:::
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labored

oh,
for something more than one momentous moment.
the weights of things I do not understand
press me farther into my confusion.

but oh i want to see, 
to hear more than to see, 
to know more than to hear, 
to love more than to know. for i am also too familiar
with these words that lost their meanings long ago.
the words i can dispense with, if i only get the meanings
but where do meanings live but in their words?

where is the body? what was broken? and what did its breaking bind? 
what is the blood? what words were spoken? and what did their speaking find?
the word for death is resolute, but resolutely empty;
and resurrection’s implications do not stir my heart to sing,
but mind to wrestle.

and yet what stirs my heart to sing is not so distant from the tomb,
the babe revolving in the womb, the spoken Word with feet and hands.
The Joyous God, who finds delight inside Himself, Himself, Himself.
There I am safe; I cannot hurt
the righteous God who rises glad. 

I am learning that to see the living God
is more heartfelt
than conjuring up the pains of Jesus’ passion. 
We must love the One God is
before we love how Jesus suffered. 
And yet we can’t forget the pain, the weeping Christ, the splintered cross.  
And we can’t forget the death that we have lost. 

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 :::{the authoress}:::
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tears

some tears are like rain clouds:
they pour and they’re done,
and they wash away the filthy mess inside. 
The wound is still raw, but at least clean,
and clean means it can heal.
or so i think.

others are like puddles and lie stagnant,
and the filth grows spiny reeds and prickly fingers,
casting roots into the healthy skin,
‘till all I am is wounds. 

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 :::{the authoress}:::
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unfortunately

when my soul is starved,
regurgitated lies seem
like delicacies.

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 :::{the authoress}:::
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she realized

she forgot them back
at home, and looking back
and forth, cannot remember
where she has misplaced them, and she
didn’t know ‘til now.

he giggles with his hands
behind his back: her squirming, shifting,
shaping worries well contained—she really
didn’t know ‘til now. 

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 :::{the authoress}:::
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friendship

It started when I jumped straight up and knew
You saw the words I saw and jumped inside. 
It started when the wary fire warbled through your eyes and out your ears—
You saw the rose I saw and breathed the stagnant crackling air.

We heard the bird, and shuddered, for we knew the bird was right.
We could not bear reality; in fact could barely keep in sight
The borderline. 
We laughed it off and played a make-believe,
And all the while we knew it was a game 
and loved it so.

The wrongs that hurt my heart hurt yours—the ones I did and ones I wore—
The wrongs that hurt your heart hurt mine—the ones you did and ones you wore—
And then we knew we won’t turn back. The way is hard, but life is short,
and wrong so wrong it pains, and tries to writhe away the right.

We carry swords together as a shield against the night.
We walk with patterned footsteps so our feet remember right.
We wear the badge of poverty with dignity and care
So when we want to stop we always have each other there.

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 :::{the authoress}:::
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i liketh not this phrase

“the verge of tears”
because really it’s an ocean and i’m holding my breath,
and panicking, and thrashing jellied arms,
hoping i can make it to the surface before the tears take over
and i have to wait and suffer
while i drown.

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 :::{the authoress}:::
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speech in conversation: a pondering

{ THE MISTER: } -------------------------------------------------------------- Rhythm? / What is this rhythm?/ Is it rhythmic? / Is it lulling?/ Drawing you down, / Deeper down into the poem, / Deeper down into the truth?/ Deeper down into the dance?

{ THE MISS: } ------------------------------------------------------------------ Deeper down into the truth, / Deeper down into the pattern of the things that you once wanted / and the things that you now want, / Deeper down into the meaning of the person you once were / and the person you now are, / Deeper down. / Or higher up./ Higher up until the point at which you can't go any higher/ Higher up until the tip of your desire. / Higher up until the fire ends and love begins, / Higher up until the point where God can take your hand and pull you/ Higher up.

some days

enough must be enough, and i must
pry my sticky fingers off the book, and 
disentangle from my thoughts my mind,
and quickly send it scurrying off
to sleep,
before i start to cry, 

again.

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 :::{the authoress}:::
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