one

i’m sitting in the er again

with the one i’m still attached to,

the one who still loves me, hurts me.

 

once upon a time: the one

 

i’ve begun the de-tangling,

de-numbing, de-membering:

a cutting declaration.

 

you have to go

all the way back

to the beginning:

 

you came

into this world

as love.

 

how that love

was or was not received

was not up to you.

 

it still isn’t.

 

your part becomes: when

to walk away, when to close the

gate, when to forge a new blade—

 

when you’ve had enough;

when you keep

coming back to:

 

you are still the one who hurt me.

 

and maybe there’s a child; and maybe

there’s twenty some odd years; and maybe

there’s a church, a house, a library of memory.

 

but there’s still the searing pain

and urge to burn the abyss

and need to fly——far, far away.

 

the truth is:

the child is no longer

a child.

 

we are each here

now on our

own terms:

 

green shifting to blue.

 

we are still a circle,

but with more branches

to balance out our roots.

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we are always building

i miss the feeling of shaking

from something other than

 

anger, other than fear. i go

to my window and look for the

 

little flowers of hope. they are

every where; fragments amid

 

very long sentences: the swallow

tail, the barn swallow, the migrating

 

monarch. your energy goes where it’s

needed; there, it meets the energy it needs.

 

fire is friction.

imagine these are real:

 

a tiny wild child on your knee,

a tired dictator on the other, the

 

view of your own face from the

inside; they are all in the arena

 

with you: daring greatly.

we are always building: bridges,

 

portals, spirals, spaceships—

without knowing. all the

 

water droplets are being

summoned into one

 

stream, here at the

intersection of all things.

 

 

hands on

god is not one of us;

god is all of us.

 

if we could put our

hands on

 

the whole world,

we would feel it—

 

the story of

the story of the

 

spiral pearly gate

opening and leading

 

us up and out of our

self-preserved caves,

 

around and around in

remembrance circles until

 

we could not do even one thing

without love.

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