Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
In this time of change
When I'm spun around
Turned inside out,
wrung and twisted
with all these
old clothes
that don't fit
and show all the holes and tears
that are the product of this life

When I'm waiting for the spin cycle
to wind itself down
I try to remember
Your love is always there.
The way your hips
nestle into the space between mine
The little sigh you give as
you surrender to sleep.

The way your hand curls
into mine.

The weight and heft of
your plates as I lift
them down from the cupboards.

The mingling of our lives:
I measure it in the momentary,
the ordinary,
the mundane.

The things I hold
closest to my heart.
Morning walk in semi-sun.
Light gilds the last
of the figs, high up
on the branches,
burnishing them the bronze
of new pennies.

At the end of the year,
when all the months'
deeds, lessons, things done,
undone, the words uttered and not,
lie at my feet,
I exhale into light.

I wonder what
this day will bring?
What balm is there
in being right?
Especially rightness,
righteousness
grounded in bitterness--
are you joining me in my misery?

I do not want
my happiness to come
at the expense of yours--
as if there were some
limited supply of it;
some small cupful--
snatching at the drops
that fall.

If I want compassion+mercy
extended to me
then I **** well better
extend it to others.

And so I go forward,
waving olive branches.

Will you grasp back?
This is a reflection on the impact of my mother's alcoholism on my life.  But it also seems appropriate for our current circumstances.
We talk so much
about letting go--
of each other, things, emotions--
as if somewhere
there is some garbage dump,
some pit
into which we cast
all those things that hurt us
break us
hold us back.

But what if we said
"I set myself free"
and walked away;
even if the walking is a process
and we set ourselves
free
inch by inch
moment by moment?
I worry myself,
pushing and punching my anxiety,
seeking some transformation
some alchemy to remove it,
sticking, stuck,
from my fingers.

Instead,  it spreads,
thickens, fat
strands of yeast
linking, tangling,
then rising
in the space I give it.

A question--how to let it rest
so my bread isn't
tough, sour in my mouth
rich but nourishing,
filling/fulfilled?
who can resist a bread metaphor?
I don't want to walk
in the margins of my life,
but straight through
the middle to the
Heart,  where
all is wild
and sticky
messy/joyful
angry/tranquil

But this is hard--
to stay in the middle,
to hand myself over to
change, a total conflagration
or, I know not what.

I remember then the audacity
of a single step.
Next page