Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                         We Don’t Understand, But We Hope

We don’t understand it, but we hope in it
The change from that which is to that which isn’t
Or is the change back again and no change at all
Which maybe means the blood and pain remain

We recline in a rented banquet room
We follow in fear along a narrow street
We watch in horror upon a death-haunted hill
We are called to an empty tomb which isn’t empty

We are called to a dented Cup which also isn’t empty
(Maybe $200 at the church supply store)
Cradling a Mystery from before time
A plate of bread that looks like bread but isn’t

The Altar is where the arc of history bends

Mystery

Who among the servers did the dishes
And did she accidentally drop a Cup?

(That part is probably not important)

I could feel your skin moving
while you were thrusting
Couldn’t see your eyes
They were open
Piercing holes through the walls
of my memory
I knew it was wrong,
the wrong place to be

We were both angry and lonely
and you’d been inside before,
me unwilling
And you got away.
Tragically bonded,
all I wanted from you
was familiar bad ***

It went by so fast
I thought I was dying
But you never crashed
until in the kitchen, crying
I could feel the glass break
like I was the aluminum
at the bottom of the sink
swallowing the whisky

And it burned the whole way down
as you jogged my memory
of your past use of force
I got away this time
lost in the night
as you were screaming
and begging for
familiar bad ***

So the days fly by, the migrations
begin again. The Geese
flying in all directions
except South

Winter is chewing the edges
of daylight.  Tomorrow it will
be Summer for the last

vestiges of the northern
calendar

My boots are in the rack.

Christmas is an afterthought

Jesus’ saccharine journey
through leather covers

trails the ribbon of His
birth.  My house needs
a cleaning.  There is
no coffee.

You will be here in the
fullness of time
We will close the door
on these infernals.

I am taught to be strong,
to not invite you to my

party.

My sadness is only a voice
In the wilderness

You wipe my tears


Caroline Shank
9.14.2024

I have autism
but I am not an autism patient
because it does not rule me

This is also a gift.

                              - for myself

~
The method is slow
And probably dangerous

From your telescope
Fewer and fewer places
No advancing horizon

Are you rendering again?

Two miles of uncertainty
Too much undergloom
You don't remember his face

It's war of attrition
A home for you
No place to run
No place to hide
To live is to die slowly
~

rain clouds;
so heavy and thick,
they're so powerful,
they hide the sun
but it's not a long-lasting trick,
it's only a temporary catastrophe
until the sun stretches
out its rays
pushing away the need for the prosaic.