Gasoline

I should not be surprised

That none of my hurry yields progress.

That working late leads to tossing in bed,

No reprieve after pushing too hard

In the first place.

It was not always like this.

I am the one who watched birds

From the bushes, who was so quiet

The creatures ventured out. I was the one

Who wrote longhand, and put the child to sleep.

Where is all that peace?

I call this eagerness for intimacy, “gasoline” -

But what are fossil fuels? An immediacy 

made over millennia, the cream of everything slow

And lived at life’s pace. Everything dead

And unwasted. I can burn up in seconds.

I can rebuild with a terrible patience. 

Now begins the long re-training, the painful 

Recovery of limbs; determined mobility

After every damning prognosis.

Someone knows I will not be purchased

As an ornament. Here is a lightning rod:

Never struck, never lied to. A nun in wolf’s 

Clothing.

--

Sin

I think what we are trying 

to say is, Tell Me I'm Wrong. 

The word you are looking for

has already been excised. 

Your vocabulary does not

contain it. The word, in fact, exists. 

Only it is

devoid of meaning. Now it is spoken

as a joke. As code for, 

"what those hypocrites

preach in their tent meetings; what the tight-lipped

whisper over tea."       It feels so far  

from genocide, from death row. Somewhere someone 

commits atrocities on purpose. Meanwhile, 

we amuse ourselves. 

We wear slippers, imagining

how we compare. 

                       Until, some night

a splinter in the mind

tells us we too

carry the seed. 

              Until we feel a menace

                        rising in the throat, enough 

to throttle the offender. 

I am the devil. 

We cannot call it like it is. We do not want to be rescued.

Only, some small

part of us is just,                         and wants to be damned. 

So we wander

hungry

for someone bold

enough 

to name it. 

--

I Understand This Game

Home, 3am

I understand this game.

You smile at me, and hide. 

Keep me awake until I split the blinds,

See the moon a lantern in the tree,

And go outside to silence. 

No cars on the road. No eyes. I stand

On the picnic table, my shadow on the corn. 

The Luckiest Girl Alive. I’m leaking. 

I remember how I wrote, 

there is a deep loneliness

I thought you understood, 

in our hush.

You were listening. Where does all the longing go,

When it is medicated? It is out here,

Flickering a hundred feet high, sparks

About to die. So small I gape to find them.

I am open. I am all ears. I see You,

In this space and darkness. I believe 

Velvet beauty will exist after I have staked my bets

And taste the bitterness. After I am shackled

And regret the getting. This wild, this whole mouth

Of You will kiss me. Show me. I know You’re there.

I understand this game. 

A truck brakes on the highway. I stare, aghast -

How completely the cloud bank

Covers up the moon. 

Our Early, Reprise

You said,

They’ll never love me for my face, and I said, 

I will love you for your face.

And you lay your head in the bend 

of my arm and I told you 

the old reasons. 

It was nothing you hadn’t heard before.

It was everything you needed to believe.

It was mother’s milk. It was oxygen.

You retched, but you grew still.

I thought you slept - 

then,
thank you,

soft as dawn.


That was how we whispered 

when your skin was raw 

and blistered and your sleep so fragile 

it was was broken by 

a shaft of light.

Sometimes I Am Stunned By My Dreams (February 14 2023)

"What if it was courage, not jealousy? What if it was courage, not jealousy?"

"I hate being a girl!"

She raved while thrashing alligators in the bog. Saving John Travolta, the man she loved, who had many many lovers. 

He was King Solomon. He spoke the poetry of Scripture. He was also stupid in his wisdom, and the world was made in such a way that she would never be free to love nobly. Always and forever she would be misunderstood; a woman, therefore motivated by the pettiest of emotions. 

She also doubted herself. Is the quality of love revealed in the object of its affection? If so, what of God? If so, she was a sorry creature indeed. 

Sometimes I am stunned by my dreams. 

By Foot, Starting Now (January 15 2023)

What is the real condition of humankind?

What is the real character of God?

Is it possible to love and be damned? Is it possible to kill and be forgiven?

Is it possible to preach the Gospel without squeezing everyone's foot into cheap Nikes? Plastic. Made abroad in sweatshops. Is this the best we have to offer? 

Sometimes I am tired of materials. Relieved, a little, that I wear socks with holes and clothes from both grandmothers and Elisabeth Elliot. It's a lipstick economy. I take that back - a tinted lip balm economy. Five dollars to feel pretty. Someone could eat on that for a week. I used to, with a few basics at home. 

What makes me think people need art? Is it because I need art? Could I even live without music? I would learn. If I were blind, I would become a masseuse and a voice actor. And really play the guitar. Like water, not like candy. Help me live already.

Don't let me wait around for love. Don't let me shop for it, and consult my list. Help me live it and recognize it and multiply it and not give up when the world is overwhelming. "Make straight Your way before me." (Ps. 5) I can make war without even getting out of bed. I can pray for people I've never met. I can teach the birds to come to my hand. I can get there by foot, starting now. 

Retreat, September 10 2022

I want to go on a solo retreat.

To Adelynrood.

I want to be deeply silent for days. To be fed. To walk a labyrinth. To be off my phone, computer. No screens. I want to write letters, drink tea. Walk seven miles. I want to sing in a sanctuary. I want to feel my body shed its stress. This reminds me of Italy. Of the places I've rested before. 

Windows remember, as do doors...*

Purple Loosestrife. 

The chapel. That almond-eyed icon.

The slow, long notes with room to swell and blend. Finally confident.

I want to make, without fear. Not because the fire is under me, but because it is in me.

Why did I love practices so much? Play. Being. The discovery of sounds. Synchronicity. Shalom. I began to think the world needed me to push harder. But the world needs more Sabbath.

I need more trees, and poetry.

I need fewer things. 

Rest. 

You can't afford not to.

Who is my enemy? What do we do with our enemies? What do we do with our friends? 

How do I pray for a hundred people? How do I feed a multitude? Where are the wounds?

The widow's mite. The widow's might - surrender.

How much do you have? That's what you give. All I have to live on.

Freedom is having nothing. Floating.

Birdsong.

Opposite of soldier.

"Opposite of doormat"**

What are the stories I tell myself? About myself?

What do You say about me? 

I don't have to prove to anyone what I am, what I am not. You have already made the way for me. Misunderstood Messiah. Moshiach. 

Leafless. But the vines climb up the tree. 

God is right in front of me. Why would I text Him? Why do I search for signs instead of looking in His eyes? 

He wants to hold your body whole. How terrifying. 

The grave takes everything. What is essential resurrects. 

I want to write better letters. I want hours.

What do my feelings tell me?

My anger, my worry, my fear?

What am I hungry for?

What illuminates the world? Whose validation do I crave?

What gives me courage? 

Plucked away from survival, I'm desperately tired. Aggressively sleepy, like nothing else matters. Like I must sit still and grow a chrysalis, no matter what. 

Stiff. Dead to the world. Let the quiet things inside do their work. Enough. Here it will happen. 

No more outer effort. No more food. All I need now: to be still. 

* See Carolyn Forché , "Travel Papers"

** Danielson, "Good News for the Pus Pickers"