FHB

Life is too short to cross-stitch.
But long enough for silence in the car (so long
I forgot you were there
and dreams crept up on me,
wrapped warm and purred
around my legs).
Green hills, hills,
the window down, my right arm
sunburned. Blanched windbreak of a face.

Life is too long to plant nothing -
to think fruit trees won't
bear fruit (or the flowers that flower next year)
aren't worth planting.
Stars have been singing all this blooming time. (You don't
require my oblation. Why should I
save stamps?) Fold up one white dress,
eat backyard weeds in order
to give liberally (FHB),
when the bread is broken,
soggy,
gone,
seed planted.

---

*FHB: "Family Hold Back"

Sundust

Certain slants of light remind me of epiphany
my Mother with a crumpled Kleenex in the passenger's seat,
lifting and shaking it out in a puff of golden,
sun-caught dust. I sat in strapped
compliance behind, transported
by the glinting fairy cloud, each fleck
an airy and impossible thing,
floating down,
slowly descending.
I had seen this before,
the flaming dust,
magic. 

Letter to God, February 12 2014

Dear Lord Jesus,
It has been a long time since I've written You this way. Did You miss me?
How is our love supposed to be like a relationship? I'm still unsure,
sometimes, how to please You.
My flesh is a tyrant. (Bother all these words and phrases). Bless me, Lord.
Make my heart right, more right than it's ever been. Show me the sneaking
grasping sins, lies, unworthy desires. Use me as an instrument
of good. Make music on me. I'm dried up and stale as an old acorn.
I want to write, sing, paint, live. Clean and plant and nuzzle up close.
There is always a part of me sleeping, and a part leaping out like a jack-in-the-
box, like an overstuffed pie.
Tuck me in, steep me in Your juices.
Help me love MORE, not less. Desire MORE, not less.
Trust MORE, not less, pray MORE, not less.
There are so many letters, so many people to write, to pray for, to be here for.
The wedding approaches. And yet what I need most of all is You. Is to lean
onto Your bosom.
What small outward acts contribute to inner peace, nearness?
Help me see the fruit growing. Not fear the storm, or the autumn,
or another long, long winter. Things grow, I grow, in winter.
Even in silence and angst.
But only by You. Glorious righteous generous You.
KJ

Prayer, April 25

Jesus.
Why is it so hard to talk to You like I used to?
How can we be friends? I feel so lonely.
I feel trapped in smallness, ugliness, pettiness.
I keep rearranging my room. Trying to get rid of things. Why?
Is it really because I'm preparing for something, or am I just growing stagnant?
Where is the life You showed me, that would call for everything I had, beyond what I felt capable of? Isn't that life always Today? Is it charmed, or in disguise, and I just don't recognize it? Jesus, help me. I'm brutish and belligerent and I can't seem to help myself. I get depressed and irritable. And lazy. Yes, lazy lazy lazy. And careless.
Do I really believe You are Who You say You are?
Then shouldn't I be living differently? Show me how to live like a river.
Always flowing in, out. Not begrudging any season. Feeding, making a habitat, SPEAKING. Please anoint my tongue. Please use me in spite of myself.
Please make me larger, not smaller. Even if I am never a mother. Even if I never marry. I have to prepare for the future by living today. What is my purpose? What is the goal? What kind of attitude, what kind of trust glorifies You?
What do I hold onto too tightly?
What am I afraid of? Travel. Ocean. Witnessing. The city. The wilderness. Myself. Oh, I am so so afraid of myself. Help me forgive myself, Lord. Help me forget myself. Abandon myself to You, You who made me. You will not waste my life. Here it is again, in Your hands. Please help me serve others. Help me desire You, relish You, come to You. Not forget that You want my heart. Your heart really does want mine, You want me to be content in You. Help me believe that, hear Your voice over the lies. Show me that You love me. You always show me; help me see.
Help me get past the sludge. I want to hear You and respond to You, whatever it is. I want all this to matter. Every day. Every moment. Make a saint out of me. The transparent kind.
God, I want to join some vision, some large and noble goal. I want something large and demanding and beautiful, to give myself to. But how well am I preparing? What did Elisabeth do? What did You do? 

Easter Influenza

Who knew fever breaking was like water breaking,
cold sweat, wet bed,
What has happened to me?

Am I born again, resurrected?
The struggle is enough to leave me wasted,
keelhauled, tarred and feathered,
crucified.

Bleary-eyed. Here am I, born and quaking, open-mouthed
to scream, as if the air is not for breathing.
Savior, bedfellow in sickness,
You harrow, You hallow hell with me.




---

Finches

Finches asking questions flap
around my window. It is open. I am not
hiding from this day, I decide. Again
I nurse my feet with tea tree oil, shift
the seedlings to the sun.

Had (better) Matter

Yes, but we are all human.

Hoopla. 

Humble commune, sludge, the nudge 

the nether end the bend 

of citrus trees, and sit us down on wed 

rocks wet rocks granted 

granite smudge. Fountains 

bluebs, bluebers, tubers, roots. Coots magoots. 

Hoodles. Hoodlums, 

Soof, the roof, the underage belly 

of the gub-gub, float me on the rim of a straw hat, 

mad and maddering, nattering, 

bedlam. That's a pink cupid, boogers. Botterboom, 

the room next to the room, the tomb of Natamycin. Doom and gloom 

and thanks for the flowers, stank up the hallway made my lettuce 

taste like pollen. Falling into ceremony, hegemony, ruthless good. 

A good broom used to sweep the moon, 

the neat, the knap, the grappling tumbling back. Have to pack.