I always associated you with sky, because the times you came alive were starlit nights. You’d wake me on especially beautiful evenings, and I wouldn’t resist. We’d stand outside with our bare feet padding chilly on the grass and your arm around me.
I loved you because
You woke me at odd hours and never expected me to
Complain. So I didn’t. We watched the planets spin, and the orange flame
Burn across the rooftops.
For half an hour we didn’t say a word.
I shivered in your dirty coat and watched my damp breath
“Your footsteps follow not what is outside the eyes, but what is within.”
In eleven, not completion, these columns rise and sigh out, give me time. See a small thread winding through my side; in contemplation find a silent, iridescent solace. Hear words beyond the language of the skin, of which skin plays a part. Press against these pillars, and align. Pass beside them, and begin to long for purity past safety, joy beneath pain. Breathe from the corners of this rectangle sky, for the first time.
Belonging to a place is a delicate state.
These stanchions, like the trees of home, smell dry of smoke and lichen. Smooth against the lips, too great to throw the arms around. Still, a love requited.
Force is required for stillness. In calm allow the terror of a conscience, the comfort of a rule. Be queen, be fool. Find truth deeper than its own façade, its own sincerity. Grow within this womb of clarity.
Space and openness. Beginning to love – do I love?
This city. Dropped back in(to) silence today.
I see things I think I know or have seen before. The world is too large for me, so I must fix on something. Please let it be You, Only, Jesus. I have nothing to say. So help me speak. Green, loss, understanding. A greater and a less. Rest from trying. Find a ladder to my treehouse attic gold.Only sunlight makes the walls worth seeing. I accept you. Hear this. My flesh is like the oil on this board. There is nothing lovelier than your arm. I will leave Rome with a few strands of my hair, sailed out the window.
This glance is soul-closed but sunny. This silence, enigmatic. Ripe to be expunged at dinner tables with milk running, wine running. Understand the courage of this gaze, my cowardice. My undeveloped demurring. This is nothing to say except everything that matters, and we don’t know where to begin.
So I will not be afraid.
What will last? What candy-bright will loosen in the wind, and shred in sunlight? Glitter by my side. Renew me. A place for birds to nest in. Stones seem cleaner than they are. Be patient in this patient day, and wash away.
Women carry roses. Men wear leather, scarves. Noise is constant but there are rarely billboard signs.
I never feel safely alone among strangers – will this be a first? I don’t tend to like such public places, but now, I think, I could be happy in Jerusalem. Your city for a garden. Your very stones are precious.
If this city is true, it is a truth below the surface of stone and the measure of bleating bell. It is a true deeper than its own façade, its own sincerity. This means more, so look at me. Give me time. See a small thread winding through my side, and there in contemplation find a silent iridescent solace.
Celestial in the melancholy sunlight. Smoke-stained joy. A rumbling, a shudder, pressure on the wide paned glass with each car’s passing.
We are delighted in the commonest novelties. Sugar, cream, caffeine. And then a rending, tearing at the lungs when the rarest familiar appears in the space between two walls.
Hollow out a place for me.
Rinse my eyes from a flash-enamored glaze. Subdue my gaze to that of a mother bearing the weight of humanity’s wings: I here bring a life to the world: earth’s richest soil will feed him, and he will know pain.
Teach these stones to speak. They have spoken. They are speaking.
And we are shot with realization. Here is a need that can only be met by