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Archive for November, 2012

A woman spends her life looking for God.
Well, actually, she doesn’t. She spends
her life doing dishes. Sweeping floors.
Folding laundry. Sometimes she wonders
if there is a god and if it is possible there
is not. And then she wonders if there
is enough peanut butter to make
the children’s lunch. Sometimes
when she is quiet there is something
she cannot express. It is something like
blackness. It is something like nothing.
It is something that she can lean into
until she remembers the bread needs
to come out of the oven. Why does she feel
it, this tug toward that nothing? And
why does she vacuum on top of it?
There are bills to be paid. Errands
to run. Bottoms to wipe. She makes a
whole to do list of excuses not to find
out what is there. Sometimes she feels
something. A certain uncertain, what?
And then it slips between the books
on the shelf that she has forgotten
again to dust.

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Brush

The rose petals are gone.
No way to know now
what color they were.
The only perfume here
the scent of November.
The rose hips are dried,
splayed into brown stars.
I once thought that I
could bloom forever.
In our hands the leaves
crinkle and crush.
This is what we were born
for. To grow. To fall.
To know ourselves as dust.

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for my mom

It was not
that I had a magic key.
No wrecking ball.
No crow bar.
No axe.
I suppose
it’s not even
that the walls
between us
were torn down.
It’s just that
one day
I forgot
to build them.

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Higher Math

Two flames
become one
fire, two drops
become one water,
two breaths become
one air, two stones
become one sand,
two grains bake
one bread, two
lovers make
one life
but there
are so many more
than two
and now
we get
to learn
what else
a flame, a drop,
a breath, a grain,
a love can do.

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And then there is
that moment after
the thrust and jostle
and sprint, after the longing
and righteousness, after the fever,
the furor, the fire, the conviction, when,
burnt out by our own
red ferocity, we see
there is nothing, nothing
to be done. There is
no defeat in this,
only release,
Then only
uncertainty is sound
enough to hold us up.
Then unknowingness is the only
place we can truly rest.

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not for days
not for weeks
not for years
has rained
oh the dust
the dust
on everything
that leaf
that stone
this heart
what just one rain
would do,
I think
knowing
even as
I shake
my hands
at the sky
that I
am
the rain

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No words so perfect
as the crow.
Although I try.
to verbalize
the changing color
of its eyes,
the widening circles
of its calls,
the syllables
deny me. Only
crows can fly
on wings so black
they’re light. And words,
well I adore
those, too, the wrestling
with, the humbling
by, but moreso
I do love
(oh hush)
the crow.

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song

it may
be bent
and cracked
this alleluia
but I
am not
done
yet
with
praise

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Mommy, she says,
I can see right through myself.
What do you see,
I ask.

I see the night,
she says.
Are there stars,
I ask.

She pauses long.
Yes.
And then a few moments later
she says, Mom, I’ve disappeared.

How do they do it,
these young ones,
teach us to be
so wholly here.

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