when the sallow moon rises
from her hidden slumber
and the stars light their
unimaginably distant fires,
i slip under my fleece cocoon
and curl into the waking dreams
of sleep.

my thoughts lose their borders,
flowing into an erratic pulse of
flashing images and wild colors.
in these dreams, you are a tidal wave.
you swell before me, dark and
enigmatic, a monstrous shadow.
you are deep and murky,
making my heart race with
the fear and excitement of the
unknown.

under the forgiving moon,
i allow my mind to hope for
things unlikely and far-off.
but when that pallid face
slips behind the earth and the
arrogant sun climbs up with
a blinding smirk, i turn my
own face toward the mirror and
stare into his begrudging truth:
i am not first place, i am not the
best, but i am just good enough, and
that is plenty for me.

the tree of life,
her branches heavy
with tantalizing fruit,
stands solidly in the
garden.
she mirrors my
unfaltering gaze,
and she begs me
to choose.
but each fruit is so
ripe and so unique
that i cannot bear
to pick only one,
and leave the others
to rot.

i didn't notice until last year.
the tumor, that is.
only a small and insignificant seedling,
it began to take root
deep within my cobwebs.
but the longer you fertilized
with your anger and hatred,
the stronger it became,
consuming my very soul.
and as time passed,
i felt it pulsating angrily
within my feeble brain,
maliciously eroding at my walls.

first,
it was only impatience.
i balked at your words and
your contempt made me cringe.
then,
it grew into anger.
so powerful it could erase
my love and replace it
with overwhelming loathe.
finally,
the bitterness budded.
i hated you venomously.
those seven letters raised my hackles,
your voice caused an adrenaline surge,
and your screams nauseated me.
before i knew what happened,
your tumor was my tumor;
your sickness was my own;
your self-hatred as strong as mine.
the line was blurred,
the ship sank as you watched
with a mocking smile.

someday,
i will face the tumor.
someday,
i will cut it out,
shut it down,
make you stop.
someday,
but not today.

the feeling is
new
and exciting, a
fleeting tremble.


your smile, a
catalyst;
your wall, a
challenge.


frivolous emotion --
a furtive
glance,
a shared
grin.


the beginning.


the end.

the cliff seems higher than infinity,
and i stand on the edge, trembling.
my toes are supported by gravity
alone, and my face is raw with
the whipping of the ice-cold wind.
i cannot see the end of the drop
below me, which sparks my
terror and brings to it a
wild and vicious life.

the uncertainty is suffocating,
i can feel it burn my lungs.
call it foolishness, call it faith.

i step over the edge,
and plunge downward.

it is a sultry dance we share;
your feet lead, mine follow.
your smile is charming as
always, but i cannot perceive
the words on the tip of
your tongue, nor will you
put them to flight.
you are perpetually at an
arm's length; our fingertips
seem to touch sometimes,
but you never let me close
enough for an embrace.
so i will wait in the wings,
and perhaps some day
i will be more than your
consolation prize.

she was
beautiful and
affectionate,
zany and
hysterical.

her life
was a
tribute to
spontaneity
and
amusement;
to loving
the hell out
of everybody
and everything
because
life
is simply
too short
to squander.

she lived
with so much
electricity
that her
fervor was
infectious to
all those
close enough
to catch a
spark.

her death
was an
earthquake;
a shudder
ran through,
and we
were all
left,
devastated
and
confused.

it will be
two years
far too soon;
two years
since a
magnificent
light was
extinguished.

but her life
is a daily
reminder.
a reminder
to live,
to love,
to cry,
to explore,
to laugh,
to wonder,
to write,
to savor.

I. Amazing Grace, How Sweet The Sound

Dear Jesus—
I’d pray while curled up
late at night, in my twin bed—
Thank You for my salvation.
Thank You for leaving your Father,
and enduring such cruel betrayal,
and dying such a wicked death at the
hands of Your own people on the cross—
and so on, and so forth.
Thank you for my family,
for my Mom and my Dad,
for Madelyn and Josh,
because, even though we don’t
always get along, we love each other.
And thank You for my dog, Max.
He really is the best!
This is where I’d smile,
picturing the happy, chubby Beagle,
gray fur just starting to creep in.
Thank You for our house, and our cars,
and our church, and Pastor Amsbaugh,
and my friends Ashley, Danny, Amanda,
Jonathan, Laura, Alexa, and Josh—
et cetera, et cetera.
Thank you for all of your blessings.
There are too many to count, Jesus.
I pray for Grandmom and Granddad Parrish,
please watch over their health, because they
need Your healing touch, and please,
please, please, save Granddad,
before it’s too late.
I also pray for Grandmom and Granddad Spicer—
even though they’re healthy,
they need to get saved too.
Heaven won’t be the same without them.
I ask You to help me with school,
help me to study hard and get
good grades, and to be a good student
for Mom, and to always honor You.
In Your name, Amen.
Then I would ***** the lights,
and stare at the ceiling,
sometimes for hours,
hoping my thoughts,
my prayers,
broke through the layers
of paint and plaster and wood,
made it all the way to Heaven,
to Jesus,
who’d be sitting in His throne,
listening so intently,
just waiting to answer each
and every request.


II. That Saved A Wretch Like Me

The first time I got saved, I was four,
too young to understand the implications
of raising my hand and following my
Sunday school teacher’s repeat-after-me,
rinse and repeat prayer.
I lived my childhood as the good little
Christian my parents needed me to be,
following the Ten Commandments,
attending church three times a week,
even trying to enjoy the dull services,
the endless sitting and standing,
the same hymns every week—
but I was no different than that prayer
nearly a decade before,
just going through the motions.
At twelve, after an evangelist spewed
fire and brimstone for an hour,
my Mary Janes were trembling,
and I prayed again, hoping this time,
maybe, I would feel that peace
that passeth all understanding.
But still, I was lonely and searching—
my salvation was hollow, useless.
So, at fifteen, while tucked away at a
summer camp in the Appalachians
I prayed again, begging,
This is the last time, God.
I’m trying, but You’ve got to help me.
The bitterness at my abandonment
rose in my heart like the pretty balloon that
a child has grasped onto so tightly all
afternoon, but their fingers grow tired
after a long day in the heat, and
so the helium carries it up, up, up,
into the atmosphere,
into to the sun.


III.  I Once Was Lost, But Now Am Found

I was seventeen, staring at my grandfather’s
lifeless body; he was clutching a decaying
photograph of my grandmother,
who had died only two years
before in this same bedroom.
He could have been in a deep sleep,
but then the old, rotted windows
would have been rattling from his snores.
I thought of the last prayer I ever said—
God, he’s dying. Just take him to Heaven. Please.
But God was never listening, was He?