[A prose poem]

I look at this candle and think of heat. Small ones, like these.
       You burnt a mouse when you were young. It screamed and screamed, you said. It screamed until it stopped.
       And so you inch away from little heats, like these. Candle lit evenings are not your thing. Little flames are not for warmth, but for the vague memory of a distant sin.
Here, take a seat.
       I know you'll want to run away, where the screams can weigh heavy without the watch of– well, me.
       I don't know how much smoke you've breathed in, or how your little hands and feet will fare trying to reach for clean air, for the life you want to set ablaze in anywhere but yourself. I don't know how you're planning to use burnt out matches.
      The mouse is gone. He's gone, he is. Listen to me.
      There is no greater scream than the past's flames. It doesn't matter how much I say I love you. In the end, I can't set ablaze a lump of ashes. And you can't just "love yourself" either– that won't help you, see?
       Roll your eyes; glare at me. But if you don't let Him give you new matches, you won't be able to set hearts ablaze in the midst of more screams.

What happens to poetry
When it only exists
While it’s drunk?

It's as if You slid a silk sheet over my chest,
or placed Your big palm over my hunched back;
or kissed my knees after their knelt espousal.

Pen-named or inked-- 
her wrist swivels. 
She's had many names, this author. 

even through so many lives
still learning how to be unafraid. 

Her wrist swivels. The page turns. 

And the blank pages terrorize
like a cliff.

and she, on the edge, 
does not know how to jump--
does not know if she should.

At the bottom of the bottle
my own warped face-- the glass,
eyes that reflect 2014 for what it was

the bottle-neck becoming mine 

At the bottom of the barrel
I find words for poetry, words for me. 

At the bottom of it all I can see.

Who am I to dwell? Who am I to grieve?
Was I building walls in Israel? Or killed by Jezebel?
Who am I to cry for war, to be in pain?
Was I tearing my garments, was I tearing altars?
Who am I, for You to think on?

For who I am and who I'm not,
for what I've cried and all You've witnessed,–

Who am I, Lord,
for You to love?

with all the fire bursting within?
will it make sense?
will anyone listen?

with all the rockets,
fading,
with all the roar and wild and the wind
roaring here, in my roaring heart,
in the boat in this storm of a mind,
rocked,
this rocket ship,
will it fade?
Where will it go?

I am fire
I am burning,
not in passion but in thoughts
riling and riding my mind like a bull,
like a the storm that made the disciples run amok
here and there, screaming, at the edge of losing their lives

and Jesus is sleeping.
hasn't taught me how,
or I haven't learned yet.

That's probably it.

The art of resting
in the midst of the thunder,
lying in bed as the sky cracks and breaks into pieces

the art of slumber, of peace, of contentedness and gratefulness
is an art I need.

Heart wallows,
wears, to the bone,
tired.

sagged lungs

and my soul no longer stirs
no "stillness" in peace,
but in numbness

and the bottom tastes like nothing,
it's all a great nothing.

yet I know,
weary arm can hold
can raise itself to the end of the tunnel

I know I'll be okay.
Your promise waits.

heart, air balloon,
the warmth of your presence,
fills me, raises me.

I am not defined
by the "i love yous" I never got.
or the ones that were taken away,
or the ones that were never meant.

I am not these mistakes,
not these storms,

I'm not the bent palm tree
the debris
of the hurricane.

But I am what I am,
a daughter, a child,
broken, bruised, beaten,
but not defeated,
alive.

I am here.
I am okay.
I am with You.

I will rise, I will not fall,
not any further.

And if I do,
your hands, Father,
hold

my wallowing heart,
my weariness.

I am not defeated,
though I am beaten.

You will raise me still,
your hands will hold,
this I trust, Lord.

Your hands will hold.

(First and Last lines taken from Paradise Lost).*

Through Eden took their solitary way,
the contemporary mind, page by page,
sitting idly on his soft bed and modern age,
witnessed the injustice, far away.

“Not today’s fault,” cries the observer.
“It is for the first man to pay.”
There is no reason a mind so clever,
could muster in its wavering faith.

What fault was his in such arrange?
Was he to pay for something so estranged?
Was it his own pain to ache?
Was it not years, years too late?

But away from his leathered book,
off to the pristine white of a winter’s day,
his eyes wander, and cry his inner grey.

His hand would abate this fray.
For if love can cast out hate,
In love, His grace will satiate.

What could he understand?
Isn’t feeling all he knows?
It is in the tears, the gentle hands–
In grace, His love will flow.

For if the stars are in our veins,
and hidden lives in a single verse,
if there are wonders in the mundane,
and even more in the lofty universe,

How could one aspire,–
How could someone underestimate–
to audaciously take life’s fires,
and in his mind, encapsulate?

So the man decides for sweet abandon.
And finds that in his soul it would suit,
to trust someone with infinite compassion,
as he read the story of the devil’s loot,
*of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit.

it was a bottle or two,
downed, you know,

by this grave, grave "poetic hen."

birthing eggs of nothing,

words that'll scroll up in a thousand screens

like yours, like mine,

we share, you and I,
a great,
a very great,
nothing.

I think I found the answer when I swung my head back and looked at the ceiling,
******* drunk, and no one to text.

I miss the sound of snow crunching under my brown boots,
walking back to her, my friend—
Friends; people who, for goodness,
We beat and live and cheer each other,
cheer in the midst of our shattering, the fall-down,
and the rise—

and I was walking back to her,
my dearest,
dearest friend.

Not that it matters anymore!
Who knows?
Where will I be in ten, two
minutes, years?

Nor do I, you see,
nor do I know.

You, you elusive you,
whoever you are.
Yes, I'm speaking to you.

Here, "let me hold that soul for you".
Stranger, I know you,
Like I know how my heart bleeds in the middle of the night,
how I know my dry lips and skin rest on my crumpled bed sheets,
like I know my purged belly wrinkles itself inside out,
like I know the secrets hiding in my closet,
the many diaries I haven't been able to throw out,

You, dearest stranger,
you and I share this amazing pain,
this, this human-ness.

I don't know you, but I know you. Too well.
Here, "let me hold that soul for you".
If we drown, we drown together.

it could've been me in your smoke,

lost,
somewhere in the baby cries in your home.

I see her and I see me,

could have laid down the necklace my aunt gave me,
could have taken the ****

could have, in the smoke and in the clouds,
cried in your home.

I sit here drunk,
think: no one is here.

but I'm here,
and all of their teachings, all of a sudden
all of their words,
the comfort of old friends that I don't have anymore,

My heart keeps them.
This treasure,
beautiful treasure, of mine.

I'm lonely,
but I'm not.

I love you, I miss you.

somewhere the cat curls its tail,
and the books look so old.

I'd sit back on a lawn chair before a wide ocean,
look at the sparks on the sea and the sky
I'd think and think about beauty like it's not a waste of time

I'd drown my mistakes with years
The skin their hands touched would disappear.
I would get drunk somewhere in the beaches of Guatemala,
kiss strangers--

like the lights over the ocean at night,
like still water.

I would breathe, for once.

Hello, 6 a.m.
Today you look the the six year old
who wrote stories.

She knocks on my door sometimes,

and I live in fear of her,
because she cries and it makes sense--

and I just can't think about it.
I can't think about it.

She exhaled, and the smoke became her neighbor.
"I came from you," it said, "I've been through your lungs.
Why are you so anxious?"

Anxious.

She looked our her window. The trees were still.
"You came from my lungs," she said,
"why don't you tell me?"

She turned to it, but it was gone.

Im putting him in a box where i cannot like him
Where he has no hands
to titter tatter, pieces, scatter—

Im putting him in a box where he cannot falter

Never, never again.

Dearest me,
You love sunrises like you love sighs
and old boots and books,
how the snow reminds you of old friends,
like comforters,
like sad days that at least weren’t alone.

You love to breathe, to cradle your own memories.
Dearest me,

I know you loved hard,
so tried and true,
hard shells for each bruise.

I did not pat your head when you cried,
dearest, I’m sorry.
I’m here for you now.

That summer
I spent kissing leaves
The summer green that knew
how to sing,
“over, over now”
for now,
for now it was.