7

on the seventh day,
she rested.
a sabbatical, a break,
a pause, an interlude,
from writing poems
until they begin to write her.
until they find her.
words now sound like a vengeful G-D
struggling to maintain his vengeance.

and i, a lady,
have no anger,
and lately have not much else
but tiredness
and yearning
and hope
for YHWH
who saves and comes
with mercy.

to fast,
withhold,
remove myself
from food and men
and the drink of our labor
in order to be ripened,
made acceptable,
soft and malleable
to his whims.
and it is a silence
and a submission
and a trial.

but, there are no poems
bursting forth.

and, why try for what isn't working?
it is always easier to go with the current
than fight against it.
remember that
when all instincts say fight
because it hurts.
it is only learning a new way.
a new language,
set of mannerisms,
behaviors,
and boundaries.
it is only readjusting to a new truth
that just wasn't so clear before.

he is really that worth it,
my heart is really that sick.

and healer, Jehovah-Rapha,
a great physician,
has quarantined his patient
and slowly,
submission.
a gentle hope
to be a gentle patient.

because,
secret whispers wonder
what this heart could be
if set set set aflame.
if it was laughing
with heaven's joy.

and heaven can't be such a dull
place because the bridegroom
is calling his bride home
and she is wild.
and she has never quite
been able to sit still
like the bitter told her to.
she leaps at the sight of her lover.
she can't keep a proper posture
when there is so much
divine satisfaction flowing through
her broken cracks.

and, she can feel them closing.
she can feel new skin growing.

and what a good church,
untame and in love.
and what a good heart,
laughing and in love.

and so her words will
sit for a while waiting for
the promises to flow again.
and happy to know that in
the hardest choices his
presence confirms the
loudest yes
to the the greatest proposal.

(you are already a bride.)