A Dream

Touch me again and let everyone 

Watch.

They are all only strangers. 

Muted and fading into the background of 

This.

This incredible love story that hasn’t been 

Written. 

We’re a painting, frozen in longing, your hand on my back, mine on your thigh, both of us full of breath but unable to

Breathe out. 

Against my skin. 

Move your hand around my waist and pull me nearer. 

Let there be another touch, and another, and another. 

Let there be a spectacle of love and lust and adoration and let them all 

Watch.

An illusion of control

Sometimes I feel the comfort of routine,

and other times I see only the arrogance

of presuming to know,

moment to moment,

where I will be.

Missing Someone

A moment later, he was gone and everyone was sad. No sadness as visible as my own, but all of us sharing the same breath as branches carry the same wind but sway in varying degrees. I am like the long narrow branch that overextended towards the summer sun and now looks as though it may not last the winter. The children are like the small greenwood branches deep in the undercarriage of the tree, sheltered from the turbulence of the air, too small to resist anything, too young to be brittle. 

My King

My King does not come riding on a dragon or a steed. He did not lift a single sword to make another bleed. 

My king does not wear armor or prepare himself for war. He gave his body over to be marked by blood and gore. 

My king was not too proud to fear, to beg a different course. But he, my king, died anyway, and yielded to the source.

My king does not need glory, nor sacrifice or fame. He gave the world a gift whether or not we know his name. 

My king is not a dead man, is not a man at all. He is everything that came before and all that will befall. 

My king is queen and she is him and he is you and me. His kingdom is within myself, though mortal eyes can’t see. 

My king is every color skin and every tongue on earth. He passes through our world with every death and birth. 

My king is someone I’ve always known, even when I hide. He’s rested in my soul, been patient as I lied

My king is dead and risen, today and every day. He lives again with every breath no matter what I say. 

Show me the place

Show me the place
where the forest meets the lakeshore,
and all their differences reconcile in the rocks and sand that wed and divorce them simultaneously,
where the easy morning light creeps over them with equal tenderness
and leaves the shadowy depths of both lake and woodland to their secrets.
Shimmering surfaces, uninterrupted landscape, boundless horizon….
Show me the place
where rock meets sky and its clouds bend to kiss and soften the jagged edges of the reaching stone, where the diving wind carries nameless birds in patterned waves over the cliffs and swiftly, effortlessly climbs back up again.
Show me the place
where the hunted are free, where the stag does not flinch to hear my company, where solitude does not beget loneliness, and my breath is not stifled by buildings.
Show me this place.

Yin

I don’t remember falling. Did you ask me? Did I ask you? Or did we both just answer a calling. I remember when your eyes met mine. The first time. The last time. Time is interrupted. And I’m orbiting within the blue. Bathing in your kindness, your calmness, the life you’ve lived through. In those suspended moments, I’m alive. I haven’t just survived. I’m seen and I see. I’m loved and I love. I’m finally really arrived. In the present.

It’s a high place to fall from. From present to past. A bitter contrast. Thoughts move too fast, and I can’t attach any feelings. I’m lost in the cost of repairs, in the price of affairs, in the multiplying layers of confusion. Is it delusion? Do other people feel this conflicted? Maybe I’m addicted to the fire.

Can the ocean in your eyes hold me when I’m blazing? Can you see past the flames and stay gazing? My god that hue is amazing. Let me linger, before you look away, take your fingers, and touch me while I stay, in your waters. Let me love you here and now, let me kiss your furrowed brow and make you happy. Don’t look away. This is all we get. Don’t look away. This is almost perfect.

Fuck Titles

I finally decided to pray

Dear God I’m not okay

I’m listening and I’m looking for signs

I keep on cleaning, keep on cooking

But I’m blind

I see nothing divine

I keep on going through the motions, daily devotions of hope

And fear

Why can’t you just appear

And fucking guide me?

Everywhere I look is a reflection of my grief

Where is the reprieve from the heartache?

What is possibly left to break?

For my sake, for their sake, for fuck’s sake

Let me rest

I mean, you know what is best

Or do you?

Do you care or are you indifferent?

A complacent God, an omnipresent fraud

I’m still praying…

Change my mind

Show me kindness, heal my blindness

Let me know how the fuck to heal

I don’t want to feel

Can we make a holy deal?

My pain for – anything you say

I’ll pray every day

Dear God I’m not okay

Before I unplugged

Staring at my phone, eyes moving frantically over the apps I have installed, looking for an escape from my anxiety, from fear. Is there a distraction I haven’t opened yet? Is there a horoscope reading to make sense of my feelings? Perhaps I’ll refresh Instagram. Maybe I’ll look through my own photos. No, that’s a trigger. I can’t shop, I know that. Hey, progress! I could message a friend. It’s late and even later where my cross Atlantic friends are. What curiosity could I satisfy with Google? Is it too late to start a book on the kindle app? Maybe I’ll watch the workout I’m going to do tomorrow. 

No, no, no, no, no. I know better than this. This is just blue light. This is just confetti. This rectangle in my hand can not connect me to any answers. I know I have to meditate. And then, to sleep. The answer is in stillness and silence and focus. I will grow past this discomfort. I might grow past even my comfort, and I guess that will have to be ok, because I can’t stay here.

Portraits of girls

There’s a portrait of a girl that I know well. 

She has hundreds of followers under her spell. 

She’s buffed and she’s waxed and she’s dressed up to sell. 

Enough makeup and hairspray to dress up hell. 

Her freckles are faded and her lips are red. 

Not a trace of feeling in her perfect head. 

She exists just so you can compare and contrast. 

Your body to hers and surely come last. 

Don’t listen, don’t look, don’t edit your eyes. 

Be real, and feel, be someone who cries. 

Over books, over music and never disguise 

your age, your birth marks, your beautiful skin, 

and if you forget, I’ll tell you again. 

I see you. I love you. I’m a part of you too. 

Namaste. Go in peace. Be real. Be true. 

I am more than a mother

This all consuming love

Is an honor

To experience childhood  and motherhood in tandem 

Is the singular thing in life

Greater than childhood itself

And yet I am more 

I was a child once

And then a girl

And then a woman

Moving forward

Haphazardly

On only two feet

Until I became a mother, and suddenly

My identity divided 

Moving now in three different directions 

On six feet

All at once

But my daughters are not divided

Despite carrying my DNA and my voice inside them

They are wholly themselves

The way I once was and am now but for the way I am reflected

Refracted

I am more than a mother