I remember those months
when you were naked,
when the pain was so great
and you were so tender
not even the flimsiest
slip of protection would stay on.
This was how I learned
your true state—
raw, porous, vulnerable—
the only place in which love grows.
How did I ever think
I could protect you from pain?
Why did I ever believe
that that was the goal?
As if breaking is not inevitable.
As if loving doesn’t
always involve a flood,
a drought, a drowning,
a dearth, a blessing.
Now, no matter how many
layers I try to wrap you in—
there is no not knowing
that your emptiest, loneliest,
places are also worthy
of love.
Now, I have learned to be grateful
that even when I wrap you
in an armor of busy-ness
or coats of competency,
you are always naked underneath.
—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer