sing
sing
deep in your soul
where your cells knit,
where your blood flows,
unlid that song
that has sparked
every dream,
that has danced
to the tide
of your heart.
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The Fall
We like to assume
this is an abyss.
Whether love
or servitude,
we see ourselves pushed backward,
tumbling,
tumbling,
gone.
For then, we shrug,
whatever
splatter
we make
cannot be
our fault.
So we
lean
into the slip.
We
romanticize
the
fall.
Sleepless
Plushness of baby held to my chest
Smell of milk, wet and dry, soaked into breath, clothes.
She wails, sick, sleepless.
Her needs weigh against my wants
struggle
scrape…
Then, in friction, ignite.
Motherhood flames
Heart burns clear
I steady the babe against my soul.
Unless
I raise my hand,
I part my lips.
But the tickling feet
of one,
ten,
two thousand
bees
quiver, quake,
and coat with sting
my tender fingers
and face.
Anxiety
arrests me.
I cannot move.
Unless,
beneath the surface,
lies a glow
of living sap,
a tree
of life.
Examine
Examine anger with light fingers. If you take it as your weapon, it will destroy more than you expect. But if you take it as your clue, you will heal more than you could have hoped.
Beginner’s Mind
I hover in time,
Hands pressed
On the pulse of air,
Mind,
Minutes.
Fear clouds time’s weight,
Like ink in the water,
And I struggle to own
That I’m blind.
Wait
For the ink to settle.
Wait
For time to pass.
Do not thrash,
Quiet!
Remember,
I
Don’t
Know.
Continue reading “Drafting Dust to Dust: Facing the Fear of Empathy”Machines scorch the land. Desolations, she calls them. You don’t fight them–or she didn’t until one killed her only brother. But she never dreamed that inside the machine might be humans like her, and a boy with the eyes of her dead brother.
Sleeping Son
My sleeping son is folded into my lap, face turned so the sweat along his hairs and the darkness of his lashes shine up at me. He couldn’t nap in his bed, his cough frightening him.
Silence. Sunlight from the window. Warmth of my son. The windows of my soul swing open.
Lion
Balancing on her belly,
a boat of baby fat,
a red truck,
a monkey,
inserted with a
splat.
The gums
and drools
have no fear
or shame,
as with squints of surprise,
she attacks the new textures.
I turn towards my fears,
new textures to my hands.
I hope I can be as lion
as you.
The Blessing
Sometimes life is too much. And then the blessing is that you can’t afford to hold on to self-defeating solutions, those messy, draining moments that you’ve endured for the sake of the status quo. You must let go of those things that hurt you. You are forced to set yourself free.
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