The Heart of God

I am filled with sorrow… I am
a weighted creature, sinking deeper
beneath dark waters.
There is only the barest hint
of a hand reaching out, or of the dream I had,
where I leaned back, into you, and you were
warm, and we belonged one to the other.
What day is to come? What now, beyond
this moment,
where I will try to keep
waking up?
I will do my best to open my eyes and
put one foot on the floor. I will open my
doors and windows, and I will breathe in
this air. I will feel my heart beating and
breaking, and I will weep for all the things
that sit, so heavy, in containment.

Where lies The Secret? I have begged the
Universe, that it not turn a deaf ear,
that it answer! Am I
not plainspoken? Did I not weep in a way that
was convincing? Did I not die, over and over,
to my dreams or renounce myself? Or perhaps
I renounced too much, or said the wrong words,
at the wrong time…. Only,
when was it sworn that
if only I asked, I would be given
everything? What incantation must I have
learned? Or is it that, there is life, and we must
weave ourselves into its fabric; we must
open our hands and let go, over and
over until what is left is our naked,
weathered flesh left exposed
to every element.
Who claimed that to love your brother,
or mother, or sister, or father,
or that to love a man or woman
in passion was this simple thing, to which we must attach
no pain in the strain of growth? Who claimed
it was the picture of perfection, one moment where
we will walk, placid, through a field of purple irises or
ride high, above the mud in a golden bubble?

Oh, there are easier paths. I’m certain.
There are roads with best intentions and substitutes and
mithridates. There are rivers of chemical solutions, and
personal absolution in the form of this lover and that lover
and another hole to fill or another dark corner in which
to disappear. I am certain, I could go back
to sleep, gently, gracefully,
glide into the arms of peace, for a moment, where
the crease of my brow smooths and my face drops into
an even mask—where every expression is fixed and I am
numb, vacant, and perfectly responsive—in the way that
a puppet will mock the shifting of your hands and arms and mouth.
You can see me, here, and I will speak, but I
will only be the part of you that moves me.
Forward, backward,
you can touch me, and I will rouse,
but barely. Almost, you can see the twitch of life, remembered.
A memory. The faintest kiss of all that came before, the final whisper of
blood pulsing—before silence falls.

But there is THIS path, which is treacherous. It is filled with stones,
which cut my feet. I am bleeding here. I am bruised, and burnt, and
my head hurts. My shoulders are filled with knots and I am beside myself
wandering in the desert. What will feed me? Who will clothe me?
Where is the God that cares for birds who do not sow or reap or store
away in barns; or the lilies, which do not labor or spin?
Oh true, that each day has enough trouble of its own. But still,
I worry at the ties that bind. A mouse caught in coils, Gordian knots, the illusions
of self-righteousness. Am I ever right? Even for a moment? I fear I have
been nothing but wrong. Nothing but trouble. I have brought no gift
with me for my Brother but sorrow.

In the meantime, I see, but fleeting,
there is I:
the ghost, haunting myself.
the monster, creeping ’round the corner. Lurking in closets and
beneath the bed in deep shadow.
The fallen branch, spilling across the path.
The stone, cutting the soles of tender feet—I am the voice,
begging for mercy. My own
enemy, anguished. I beg you; forgive me.
It is I, who must be vanquished.

05.07.09