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Holy in the Infinite

Month

July 2014

The Poem

The Poem (6.16.14)

 

as if writing this poem

as if writing

all of my poems,

could bring you back

 

as if you could ruffle

the rough edge of my pages

fanning the sheets

as if you were drifting

your thumb across the side of my face

 

as if this poem

could rewrite itself

and take us back

to our history before us

so I could avert my eyes

from yours

so i could keep myself from

slipping into the free fall

that was my coming to know you

 

as if you were my poem

simply waiting in me

for the moment to reveal yourself

to speak

to cry out

 

as if my poems could show

the trembling

with voice

in my hands and the scratch of my pen

as if my words could reach out

and slowly undress you

so I could lay my head on your chest

and listen in the night

to find there are still poems

with my own name

written inside of you

just waiting to be set free

and if not, at least

I could have one night

with my head resting above your heart

listening to my favorite rhythm

 

as if I could seduce you

with my delicate lines

twining together with yours

the playful stretching

of meaning

the teasing,

gentle teasing of pausing for breath

the rhythm of my words,

low and sweet,

the rawness of nerve,

the gasp at the audacity

of my whispers,

begging you closer,

unbuttoning you.

 

and oh,

the curve of my verse

brushing against you

 

as if my poems are just my heart

speaking aloud

as if you were the poem.

I didn’t know until you had gone

 

as if my poems are just my heart

sighing your name

aloud on the page

as if just by sighing your name,

aloud on the page

I could sigh you home

I could sing you home

But Nothing Came

But Nothing Came (7.1.14)

I’ve been trying a while now
to write your poem
to find your voice
Still lingering in my chest
Listening for you singing
But nothing came

I looked for you
in every place I went
Begging the universe for a sign
Seek the stars to light my path
back towards you and me
But nothing came

I held tiny birds
in the palm of my hand
Feeling their hearts flutter
Touching their downy wings
Searching for the memory
of the softness of your hair
The gossamer of your wings
at night
But nothing came

Our house was built on lies
And as the walls crumbled
I found the foundation
built on sand and tides
And I never was deserving
of your honesty or truth
And I searched for the tools
To raise us up to those beams of light
Like that photo you took
in your sister’s barn
But nothing came

I was not yours
Though I never saw it until now
Instead of seeking you in stars,
now I seek myself.
Instead of searching for the beat of your wings,
I finally spread my own and flew.
Instead of building my life around you,
I gave strength and support
to my own shelter.
Instead of listening for your voice
singing songs we used to know
low and sweet,
I found my own.

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