I watched as you drove
paying perfect attention to the road
tapping your fingers to the song on the radio
and this is when I should've known
that the road less traveled
always bring you back home
feeling as if you were never really gone

I watched as you cried
during a movie when someone died
and you said one of the characters still alive
reminded you of me
and I too, began to cry

I can still see you in perfect form
as sweet and innocent as you'll ever be
I imagine that when you were born
you didn't cry, you came into this world smiling

and that's how I'll remember you
an intelligent, kind hearted, lovable being
we're on the journey of life
I was passing through you
as you were passing through me

i miss the old wooden swing in my backyard
where i used to sit and think and write for hours

i miss being lazy on the living room couch
and watching cartoons with my youngest brother

i miss sitting in my room, hearing footsteps from the floor above
and being able to know exactly whose they were

i miss waking up late on saturday mornings
to the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen

i miss being able to tell my little sister she looks pretty
every morning before she goes off to school

i miss sitting on my mother's bedroom floor
and listening to her tell stories about Tennessee

i miss hearing my father constantly whistle and sing
while he walked around the house doing different things

i miss living four minutes away from my best friend
and sleeping at her house for days just because i could

i miss talking to my brothers at 2 o'clock in the morning
about absolutely nothing and positively everything

i miss taking pictures of my backyard, even though nothing
about it has really changed in the past twelve years

but i think that i miss home the most at mealtimes

- m.f.

I liked it.
I liked the paths your words took me on.
The intermingling ideas and thoughts,
Contradicting each other.

The secret language you taught me to speak.
It felt special, and different.
But really, I was never fluent.
Maybe you never were either.
You just enjoyed the struggle.

I enjoyed the fight.
The winning or the losing.
Not the questioning and guilt.
But now I know that I lost that fight.
But so did you.

Who am I to know that
the existence of heaven lives
in the pause between breaths
or that the story of creation is
a searing scar in the side of Jesus?

I have collected my pleasures,
like monsoons collect the dead,
have collected my memories,
the raw force of vitality,

the swift silk of a spider’s web,
the emptiness of being, all of this:
a country of vibrant emotions.

I have touched the sea with my hands,
bringing them together, feeling the abrupt salt
between my fingers, torrid like
the stinging whip of a lover:

Her tongue burns me alive with
its naked wine; her eyes dig
into the depths of mine.

Who am I to know that the Kingdom of God
lives in the stones, the fire, the water, the mud,
or that twilight is a sudden sadness
like gray blood clots caused by black thorns?

Still, my excitement is like a tower
of energy or a vigorous burst of *****
or the moonlight’s mysteries fitting its key
into my soul where a secret stillness

wallows in its swaggering bliss.
I have tasted the meat of the universe,
its heart, its lungs, its liver, tasting it
with my gentleness, a gentleness like

soft lips, or a feather, or a lover’s whisper:
Her mouth burns me alive with its raw juice;
her heart feeds from mine.

Who am I to know that the Supreme Spirit
lives in the flies, the lice, the grub, or that
death’s bitter sorrow lives in the dust, the bones,
the ash, or in the agony of a broken heart?

—once, Jesus summoned me.
He undid his wounds with the jagged blades
of my tears. I held him, embracing him, saying:

My brother, my brother, my peaceful brother ...
who am I ... to know ...
who I am?

________________

From my first book: 'In Forbidden Language'

©dah / Stillpoint Books 2010
all rights reserved

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