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Posts Tagged ‘connection’


 
 
It’s because to try to describe this feeling is 
to render it instantly dull, flat. 
It’s like when you see a rock on the bottom
of the river—all shimmering and bright—
but the moment you bring it to the air
to share it, what seemed precious 
becomes cloudy, mundane, a dumb lump,
the stuff of filler in a suburban parking lot.
 
And so you learn to be quiet, to let your syllables 
float away like dry leaves. What is heaviest 
stays. Does not wash away. Is polished by friction, years. 
Sometimes you meet others in the river. What shines 
shines. Together you stare, stunned by the damn beauty. 
Maybe you hold hands. Watch the light as it plays.

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The way my grandmother tended 
to her daylilies, that is the way
I want to attune to your words—
knowing how each utterance blooms
only briefly, but when cared for,
the plant itself is hardy, long lasting,
abundant, able to survive both
heat and chill, both loam and clay. 
Come love, whisper to me. 
I cherish every petal. And when
there is no bloom, I have learned 
water and fertilize anyway, to honor
the place where the bloom will be.  

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At the Table of Loss

As many chairs
as humans.
No way to refuse 
what we are served.
We choke on 
the courses.
How is it they
nourish us?
Beneath the table, 
we hold hands.

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Trust is a porcupine
sitting on the highway
in the middle of the night
not bothering to raise 
even one of his
thirty-thousand quills,
choosing instead to look
right into the oncoming 
traffic, the shine 
of a direct gaze 
more effective 
communication
than any sharpness, 
any barb.
 

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                  for Moudi and Taylor
 
 
Starting the long drive home,
I do not turn on the radio
to hear news of the broken world.
My father taught me every broken thing,
from coolers to car doors to roofs,
could be fixed with silver duct tape,
at least for a while.
How big would the roll have to be, 
America? On the seat beside me, 
a green and white striped bag
is filled with hummus and cheesy crackers,
chocolates filled with coconut and pistachio,
oat protein bars, dried mango strips
plus a small baggie of pretzel twists,
a road-food care package my friends 
prepared for me in the middle of the night
so it would be on the counter waiting for me 
to find when I left their home at dawn. 
Perhaps kindness is a kind of duct tape—
which is to say it doesn’t actually fix things,
but it does help us go on. What is broken
is still broken, but I can taste the adhesion 
in the coffee they ground for me last night
so I could be awake for this morning’s drive—
hints of cinnamon, dark chocolate, toffee, 
love. I feel how their kindness holds me together 
this morning. How sticky it is, the message 
they wrote for me in sand: you are loved.
The message will fade, but as the world 
goes on breaking, I feel surrounded 
by their kindness all the way home.
 

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While all around us the world rushes by, 
our conversation becomes a wide flat rock
in the midst of the river where we can rest
long enough to see not everything
is snarl and torrent, rapid and rush. 
See how the heron lands in the eddy,
how soft moss grows on rocks in the shade.
Holding up all the tumult, the peaceful.
At the edges of chaos, the beautiful. 
This is why, when I call you in the middle 
of the day and you answer, I almost cry. 
Because the timbre of your voice is enough
to land me. I lie on the solid rock of our talk. 
I rest there long enough for my own pulse
to slow, long enough dangle my ankle
into the current and think, yes, 
I can swim again. 

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Wini weeps as she tells me “everyone is so broken,” 
and a small shrine appears in the tear on her cheek.
I kneel inside it as it slips to her chin.
My throat clenches, my own heart widens,
enlivened by how deeply Wini cares, 
and somehow her heartache begins to mend 
my own grief for this cruel and callous world.
More than any beauty. More than the uplifting song 
of the red wing black bird trilling through the open window.
More than the scent of basil and lemon. 
More than the dark silhouette of two herons winging 
through the nectarine sunset. Wini’s tears heal me. 
Shared ache becomes its own medicine. 
No. Not the ache. The medicine is in the love that fuels 
the ache. It feels so right, I forget to wish it didn’t hurt.

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    with thanks to James Crews
 
 
My friend James calls it the rough blessing,
the blessing that rubs, that chafes,
that scrapes. Perhaps I wanted blessings
to only feel good, to be gentle. But the word itself
comes from the practice of sprinkling blood
on an altar. Why should I be surprised when
the blood for the rite is my own? I am thinking
of how today when I was hemorrhaging fear,
my friend comforted me when I called her in tears.
I felt so loved when she listened and soothed.
Such luminous intimacy grew from my wound.
Oh, ache of being human. Oh, the blessing.

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Inspired by Camille Claudel’s sculpture “The Wave”
 
Almost like a fist
the great wave of war
rises now, arching,
all froth and force,
and in the single instant
before the crash,
before our demise is cast
in onyx or bronze,
before everything
we’ve made is smashed
like plaster on the floor,
this chance to conceive
the world as it could be,
the chance to take
each other’s hands
and hold them fast
so the terrible wave
can’t separate us.
The wave will break.
We will be towed and tossed.
My friends, it matters
that we stay together.
 
to see this sculpture, visit here

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One Garden


 
 
I am no longer surprised
when strange, exotic
blooms appear in my mind,
knowing now how seeds
arrive on the wind from everywhere.
Now, I am less likely to label
something weed simply because
I didn’t plant it myself.
At the same time, I want
to be discerning, knowing
whatever I choose to grow might
appear soon in the soil of you,
so I am cautious when sowing
bulbs of anger, saplings of judgment,
thorns of certainty.
I want us all to plant great beds
of unanswerable questions
and tend the mystery together.
How else might it change
what these hands do when I
trust every choice matters?

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