Moving On

There are no metaphors left for death.
The butterfly emerging from the chrysalis,
the carriage driver,
the journey across a river
whatever its name
are hollow by now.
One would think that
an experience that feels so new
to all of us
from Adam
to David
to me
would birth in us words that could capture the pain.

This is the hard part:
the final kiss from the door of the house,
a goodbye to a tenant who would never
come back even if given the chance.
Only a final glance as if to say,
"I'll go on ahead.
You come later."

Oh, glorious risen Christ,
Defeator of this thing we see too often as an end,
give final grace.
You who knows the the stains of weeping
simply, quietly, hold us now.

For Meaghan and Dylan

Wedding Blessing

This is a blessing
on all the forgotten days,
the normal days,
the Tuesday in January days
when nothing is really happening and
there is nothing springing eternal.

This is a blessing
on all the angry words,
the “you’re just like your parents” threats,
the fleeting “I should have never done this” doubts,
the fear he will never understand her,
and the horror when she does him.

This is a blessing
on the bad breath moments,
the haircut mistakes,
on the time when her hips grow as quickly as his belly,
when hair recedes or relocates,
when the back is stooped and the grasp shaky.

This is a blessing
on the “we can’t afford that” moments,
the loss of money or pride,
the denial of self
that doesn’t feel like denial when the two are one,
the nights when holding is the only touch desired.

This is a blessing
on the weeping so strong
it shakes the body
and matches to the beat of the heart
of the one you are cradling,
on the fever at midnight and the glimpse of final goodbyes.

There is much to be treasured in romance
and the candlelight specks in sparkling eyes,
but this blessing is on the deepest roots
that burrow far below a kiss
through sickness, sin, and madness
to the nurturing of tears.

The Root

“How long have you battled with your
mental health?”
I had to laugh at first.
Battle with it?
I really just surrendered.
But I thought.
My brother died.
After that.
My grandfather died.
After that.
My mother died.
After that.

I remembered.

I first went crazy when a group of Christians
brought me and another teacher
into a room at a church
to listen to complaints
about the books we had their children read.

“Wicked,” “Perverse”
“Corrupt children”
They tied us to our chairs with their accusations.
The words,when sprayed on us by a pastor,
were acidic, eating through the paper of our diplomas.
But we sat still in the undercurrent.
Words were kidnapped
from pages
and raped before our faces.
I could see tears puddle in my colleague’s eyes.
But we had been told not to defend ourselves.
To stay quiet.
If we just stayed quiet, it would go away.

We sat silent.
And something in me was murdered that day.

“Am I this evil?”
I couldn’t help but ask myself.
I loved them.
I just wanted them to learn.

I have sinned.
Oh, I have sinned,
but that sin is not my sin.

"They eat each other here,"
I heard the whisper bouncing off sterile walls,
the sacred walls of orthodoxy and contempt,
and I thought they meant something like the Lord's Supper
or the Eucharist, but that wouldn't be right--not eat each other, that would be eat Him--
but I distinctly heard "each other," and I'm not even sure who whispered it;
it just came in my head.

Cannibalism from Spanish Canibalis,
name (as recorded by Christopher Columbus)
of the allegedly cannibalistic Caribs of Cuba and Haiti.
Oral Sadism
Vultures feed on the dead,but God's children feed on the living.

This is the answer,
the secret I hide inside me.
This is why I sometimes break down in tears for no reason.
Why I sometimes fly apart.
Why I wake up sweating in panic at 3 a.m.
Why I run from conflict whenever I can.
Why I desperately want to be loved.
Why I trust few persons
but God.

Stones

White, smooth, weather polished stones.
My grandmother and I collected them in the park
behind my house. Or rather she watched me
as I chose each one, somehow instinctively,
and placed it in my pocket.
I’m not sure on what merits I made my choices,
which to leave by the gnarled oak tree
and which to plant on each side of me.
I felt sorry for all the orphan rocks and wanted to take them all.
But choosing one means leaving another,
and perhaps they chose me anyway.
Some were tiny like bird eggs.
Some were larger like the cobblestones
used as ballast before paving the downtown streets.

With these, I would fill my pockets until I could hardly move,
almost doubling my weight with rubble.
I would sway with the weight of the mounds.

I have kept these stones since that day,
lining my pockets with their heavy affection.
Sometimes they have kept me from floating away.
Sometimes they have caused me to drown.

Grandmother

He lived just two doors down
from her when he was eight,
and when she sent him home
with a hot glass bowl of something she had cooked
for him to share with his other family down the street,
she said,
“If you fall running down the street,
throw the bowl to the side.
I don’t want it to cut you.
I can always get another bowl.
I can’t get another grandson.”
And she watched as
the skinny legs stiffly and awkwardly
carried the blonde boy balancing a steaming dish
to his home.
The back of her hand wiping the sweat from her forehead,
the breeze on the front porch blowing through her house dress.

This was the philosophy taught,
the first lesson of many rules:
that no matter how
precious the work performed,
no matter how hard the sacrifice,
no matter how blistered the hands may be,
the one receiving the gift is always
valued more.