Step Outside

Step outside yourself.

Step outside.

There’s light shining somewhere.

Take it in,

Lace it through your bones,

Tie it tight.

There, now:

An extra skeleton for days like this,

When the one you were born with

Won’t hold you up.

If you can’t see any light,

Then taste the air.

Not far away

Someone else is breathing out

While you are breathing in.

Life circulates.

We all reach one another

Eventually.

Another Word

It wants another word, this thing,

one more fitted than

the dull, blind giant “love” is,

whose hollow, bloated imprecision can’t sustain more meanings.

It wants another --

not an infant word to pet and coddle,

to lower into spaces other words have left;

no block letters stitched on quilts,

no dangling filigree;

not a word to mutter or command

or list alongside others like a task;

not a substitute – kindness, generosity, these nobles need no proxy;

not a word to brandish or to bait, or to enshrine,

not a thoughtless valediction, no …

no word that rolls so loosely off the tongue can say what this thing is.

It wants a notorious word,

thin as sweat on skin,

a word that’s signed in broad and vicious strokes

kinked, knotted, crossed,

a question with no answer,

an unreadable word.

It wants a word that hisses through the teeth,

or tumbles unexpected,

or only sounds when lips are pressed.

It wants a mouthful.

It wants a word that goes on wildly saying

until

it

decides

to tame itself,

and even then 

continues in the silence.

Kick

* Click here for video of this poem performed *

I’d begun to think

lately

that there’s not much more to life

than drowning,

as if we’re born

knowing the sweetness

of the air

before we’re dropped

into the surf,

where we learn

by days and years

how to accept it,

the process of sinking --

how to quit fighting

and to breathe the water,

breathe it in gulps with relish

to help us forget

how horrifying drowning is.

I’ve been curling up

to watch the bubbles rise,

limp with

my own weight,

hands over my ears

to block

the whispers of

“impossible” that

followed as I

drifted downward

fact by fact by fathom.

This morning, though,

I kicked,

convulsively.

I kicked

because someone

reminded me

that there’s still air up there,

and I’m not the only one

who’s tasted it.

I’m not the only one

who wants to breathe again.

Someone reminded me

how bright it is,

how clear,

how mesmerizing are the clouds

reflected in the wet

triumphant irises

of seekers who have fought

to get above.

Someone reminded me,

just by loudly being,

that it’s worth believing

in things

the drowning

cannot see;

that maybe it’s not foolish

to look for love in every pair of eyes;

maybe it’s not weak to cry

when someone offers up

a passing kindness;

maybe giving more than you have

doesn’t make you a doormat,

it makes you a saint;

maybe sacrificing for someone

who doesn’t care

is noble instead of pathetic;

maybe it isn’t odd, maybe

there’s something beautiful

about finding seven layers of epiphany

in a coat of cracked paint;

maybe a child’s voice really is

that

magnificent;

and maybe it matters –

God, maybe it actually matters

that we’re listening.

Someone,

without meaning to,

reminded me

that it’s not crazy

to kick toward the surface;

it’s crazy to think

there’s anything reasonable

sensible

logical

in breathing water

when there’s such a thing

as air.

There’s still air up there.

Remember?

A Flaw in Your Anatomy

Lord, hear my prayer.

Grant me my petition.

If it’s truly in your image I am made,

Unmake me now.

Take back your graceful stature;

Stitch me into some new form,

For, God, with all respect,

I’ve found a fatal flaw in your anatomy.

You bid me love, O God.

This vessel is not fit to hold such weight.

The lungs heave valiantly,

The muscles flex and loose,

The heart – oh, God, the heart …

But it beats on.

The body fights like hell to meet your charge,

And makes itself near equal to the task,

Except for this:

We have one countenance,

Two eyes that look ahead.

To face someone in full and perfect love,

We must to every other turn our back,

Or else with constant whirling

Be made mad.

Lord, hear my prayer.

I confess I’d never seen

Until today

The beauty of the seraphim,

The prophets’ holy monsters.

I think I understand now

Why Revelation’s angels teem with eyes.

Forgive me, Lord,

For wanting past my due,

And grant me my petition.

Make me as Ezekiel’s cherubim.

Give me four faces

That I might love with all I am

In every course.