"perhaps this is what they meant by original sin, i thought"

this issue of liberty
occurs to me most,
(every time, really)
I emerge from the bellows
of underground tracks,
coming back from a home
where no one walks in on one another.
a home that values liberty -
- we had no curfew -
we were kept together by
the boundaries of propriety.

I emerge from the bellows into the
celestial overhead of the station.
every time with knees buckling,
my faint heart,
always ready to collapse at the oyster bar,
in the secret corner where
one can hear your whispers.
these days it hurts to raise my voice,
makes me tremble,
haunts my nerves,
shakes my ribs,
brings flowing tears.
when my loudest screams did not
stop you from opening my closed doors,
walking in on me: nude,
covered in self protection.

it happens here, every time
i scan for your face.
forgetting, every time,
that you no longer spend
your days pacing back & forth in the lobby
to and fro
to get your lunch
where i used to meet you.

the issue of liberty occurs to me
when i step out into the street
wondering when the golden starts will
be something to stand in awe once again.

yes

this is the first grey winter
i've had in years.
the beginning of the next quarter
begins in a grey train heading home -
the heart swells with the sweetest joy,
the painful longing to plant
my roots deep into fleshly soil.
let yourself grow, let yourself grow.
we wait until spring with joyful expectation and
i say yes.
let the robin in the snow
& the expectant mother
& the rainbow we watched
spread across the sky after the hurricane,
let them speak their yes.
and please, please
take it.
take this yes,
this foot holding the door ajar against all forces
of bitterness and otherness
take this yes & tell me truth-
let it tear off my clothes,
let it smear away my red lips,
let it bring me to my knees.
let it hurt.
but do not stop -
tell me all of the ways
i am cracked & bruised & not alright.
why does it send so many shivers of life
to hear "you're not alright?"
to be seen uncovered, in the reality of truth
let your honey-golden-joy voice grow in me.
just pour it over me
and then whisper your name,
whisper the name that
wraps itself in promises
& be ever with me, be with me always.
my heart is but a magnet ever aching toward your thrown.

chincoteague

what a scary thing, to feel so settled in a decision before all the facts.
in this way i begin--
---
love, at one time or another, was so much of a decision and less of a beginning.
we began, of course,
but in beginning i only chose.
only fought and only quit and much like edna pontellier, only drowned.
this was love and it was water about my nostrils
a choice i kept making, treading water, desperate for something that felt more like alive, more like kindness, more like knowing.
and did you ever know me? and could you have ever?
lying naked on the bed next to you, still feeling the need for cover: thin sheets and lies.
---
alone felt more like honesty and breathing in the ocean at eleven pm in june on cape cod.
have you ever been there? i am wrapped in the memories of thirteen discovering its open waves and its open sea. and have you ever seen the chincoteague island?  i am wrapped in the memories of seven discovering its ponies and its sand that turns green under your toes.
---
i am seven.
i am thirteen.
i am eighty six.
i am twenty five.
---
in secret i am wrestling with the soundness of my decision, and in feeling so settled i remember a promise i made to never forget the love i promised myself to. 'i found him whom my soul loveth, i held him and would not let him go.' it is written around my wrist to haunt me and i wonder, could you too?
---
life, it scares me.

october hit us hard -
pummeled and pummeled and pummeled
after a summer of stirring hot air and
gusts of cold fronts,
the imbalance has hit,
and so much laid to rest.
from ashes to ashes,
from dust to dust.
we had a bad summer,
we will survive this winter.

after three months, I'm still waiting to for the anxiety to cease.
are you sorry? are you at least satisfied?

life flooding back into my heart, like a limb waking up after sitting for too long.

i remember the day i asked you if i was the rain on your parade and you said no you're the confetti and i thought i love you.

the foyer, part II

it struck me as odd today that any of this could even happen.

and of course, i didn't intend to see your face again, or to be going into work at the same time that you were or to be leaving the coffee shop at the same time you were walking past it with that beautiful woman in a little dress.

and i swear, i scheduled those meetings before i realized they were in your building and i swear i will not be there every day. and certainly i wouldn't have been there if i didn't have a very good reason.

but seeing your face again struck me as odd in the same way that its all odd. i'm learning to give up trying to explain myself in some kind of defense that i'm not crazy.

there is a remarkable sameness about your frame and your face. the most familiar stranger. this familiarity confuses me.

it all confuses me. there's a built up tornado in my chest, a tumbling and revolving of questions and i am trapped by restrictions of being unable to make this right.

today, i sat for an hour on 6 1/2 ave watching your coworker with silver hair and we smiled at each other. send my regards, i thought. no, don't send my regards, they would not be regarded well.

so i went back into the coffee shop to throw away my cup and clean my hands before the long ride home and i thought about the time i that sat there soaking wet, waiting for you. and i opened the door and there you were. you didn't see, but i just stopped, watching you walk away toward something i'm not privy to.

on my way back to my bicycle i walked past the pedestrian throughway and smirked and dared not peer deeper into my memories.

i rode home through times square, down broadway, a remarkably pleasant route when my prayers and pleas for peace and calm and mercy are louder than the crowds and horns and sirens.

i cut east at thirty eighth street until i was let off at the river. and, why didn't i remember that this is the park where we sat and i quietly went over our future and agreed to it? it was something like love and safety then. this was my first time back.

which is why it was so odd to come home to my little sanctuary in the east village and look at my doorway remembering that first week i was home always walking with my keys in between my knuckles just in case.

the foyer

when i saw you pass by me i wanted to yell out hello to you, but instead just let you turn the corner, into the elevator, where i would be following just a couple minutes later.

and how fortunate that i didn't lock my bike up right there, or get caught at another light through times square as to avoid the difficult question of who goes through the revolving door first?

or, would we share? and then i wonder exactly which elevator you went up in and if, when i went down an hour later if you would be coming down for a mid-morning prayer or croissant.

and why, out of the thousands of buildings in new york city do i have to visit this one twice in one week and why is there an increasing need to say i'm sorry, to hear you are too.

i feel this physical urge to list all of the swipes you took at my dignity and safety, to let you feel the weight of a threat and then to hear you say you understand that was wrong and not a good thing and has taken a serious toll on my sense of well-being.

and so i almost ran after you. but to what avail? you might do the same, recount all of the ways i didn't love you and took advantage of your kindness.

it all might have ended in a screaming match at the martini bar a few blocks away where you once called me and lied to me through tears about an affair that you had just to get me to admit that i still loved you.

perhaps i'll see you again tomorrow.

hope

Lord, to whom shall we go? thou hast the words of eternal life.

I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go.


Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.


Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money; come ye, buy, and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.


He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that rules his spirit than he that takes a city.


Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.

And straightway the father of the child cried out, and said with tears, Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.

all my waters are muddied and i have nothing left.

I hear rumors of a kingdom in which there is no shame. I sit, making piles to count, like throwing stones, like feeding ducks. I sit and count and recount. always coming up empty, my hands are bare. there is nothing left to hold onto except regret. in this kingdom, do they condemn you? I have already condemned myself, you can spare your words. i know, I know. with a sinking heart, I know.

reading my old words and thinking they could be new words.

i don't stop making messes,
don't stop needing grace.
this is my honest soul,
all mixed up and on display.

that's all i have, the silence of my voice and the humble lowering of my head.

i know, you have no reason to love me. i know, i've messed it up.
but, also, the whisper,
i am thankful you aren't the accuser.  i am so very thankful.

the resurrection must be so good, so satisfying, the new jerusalem must be so complete, so full of shalom, that even if all of our present suffering does not end, the heart still trusts that the goodness of heaven is worth it.

the saturday before easter

his bones sat and waited.

growing stiff and groaning silent.

and i clean my kitchen

and wonder through tears

what to do with his silence.

and i wonder what it means

to hope in the midst of sufferings,

and i wonder if steven thought if

all men who ended in crucifixion would rise?

and i wonder how shaky hope became

when the three were thrown in a fire?

all this i think about on a saturday

afternoon preparing for my easter brunch-

is it that all women who are bent over

from infirmity that will stand tall again?

this, this resurrection, not a metaphor

or a pastel painting,

but this movement of blood and cells

after three days of death.

this death that was real and true

and this life that burst forth into it.

these things cannot be softened.

because, i, a girl, whose blood and cells are moving

am a lazarus in need of a resurrection.

let this -

this letting go,

this refusing to give into the affections,

this walking away from the affections that are not you,

this little death in me,

let this be an offering unto you.

and let you,

you who are Love,

you who are abounding in richness,

you who is rich in cattle and rich in grace,

let you pour through.