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.

it is always in october that i

feel it the most.

the tugging on my nerves

to tell me that there should be a breeze,

or when my neck gently reminds me

to bundle up.

and this day, on the last of october,

i feel it strongest.

my bones grew strong with east coast iron,

and know nothing of the search for gold

or red dirt clay.

my bone knows how to walk quickly,

my bones only know how to walk quickly,

stopping only for traffic or the sudden gaze

on a red maple.

i must look upon the face of new york again,

i must drink in the atlantic grey soon.

----
the train station where i picked you up & you hugged me & told me I was real and I wanted you to kiss me, to prove that she wasn't.
there are so many pigeons, still. reminding me of that same day.
funny how pigeons can remind me of something so important. perhaps that was the beginning of this thing that i'm putting back together now.
----
my legs feel unsure in California among so mountains.

poets say it better /

than i know how to.

there are little things,

that may for a while,

or a long time,

make me cry.

like you.

like all of the hope i have stored up in you.

like knowing that you are discovering the

combination of vegetables and your favorite meal.

and knowing what such a discovery may mean:

there is relief.

tour de force

you were not a choice, as much as you were a force that ran up and down my fingers, up and down my spine.

you were not so much a choice, as a chance wind, overtaken, swept up and left ravished dizzy and dazed.

and this was not so much yesterday as years ago but we are all still left collecting thoughts and examining why's of your tour.

and you are betrothed now, or perhaps you wear a thin strip of gold around your finger, right or left hand, depending on the custom.

and he now shudders at your name, even when heard, even when read in the holy book, to think of --

and here i am choosing a man worthy of choice. and it is slower and less like violent love and more like the slow unfolding of a story written in springtime, written in meadows, written for blooming.

and we walk in seasons of night and day and winters and spring. and you were august, hot and melting, and he is april, subtle and unfolding.

i am not so happy for so many changes, so many days letting him sit with me as i sew back together the tears of my inner linen.

he gives me silk.

but, i am happy for the choice. the moments of brief clarity sitting and choosing: this is how i shall live.

i shall live in silk.