The Blessing of Grit
I have all of this:
the soft, butter-yellow light
of my regard;
the brown tips of my fingers
brushing against skin; and
the careful press of my palm
to the body of this, most beloved
of manifestations.
I have the gift of
bricks, sighs the size of
concrete planters and
stiff as steal beams;
I release each
breath from my chest, where they
rise and fall
as heavy as
stones. Where I am rough,
there is the blessing of grit,
sandpaper kisses,
rounding me down again
in this changing river.
One moment, raging,
the next, smooth as the
gleaming cheek of a
dreaming infant . . .
See! I am either drowning or
floating or flailing my arms
in every direction—where is my
low-hanging branch? My jetty?
There’s nothing!
So today, I am dying. This is
no different from
yesterday. But one instant, I will
smile, and it will be warm and
the colors are bright, and I can
feel the sun on my bare ankles, or
then the clouds come
and there is a thunderstorm brewing.
At best, I am
struck by lightning…electrified,
I am sizzling, and all my good intentions
are cooked down to nothing.
Meaning?
Love has me. Firmly,
and there is nothing I can do
to wriggle free. I am caught in its
embrace, and there I am.
Every day, twisting.
Take me, then. This is the same as death…
I want to give everything openly, and
so? Even if you can’t grasp it, here it is.
Where else would it be?
This divine thing has bewitched me,
completely. That is my
service then, when all the lights go dim
I am still there,
in your corner, shining.
And? You want silence or distance or
to go somewhere else, where there’s less of this?
Okay then. Who am I, to
tell you your business?
And one day, should it appear
as if I have gone, truly
that love still exists…
Where could it go?
It is bigger than sky and all around me
breathing me each moment; what could you
do? Each thing only changes
form, from one moment to
the next I might be a goldfish,
some days, or a lily in
a field of dandelions.
Don’t mind that I have
heavy shoulders. They sink
down to the ground
and everything is made
of needles; I am poked,
and drained, and stuffed with
something
entirely useful.
Who’s complaining? It’s torment!
What one of us can stand
so much perfection?
All this purpose, waiting for
reception, in this place; I receive because
here I am. Now I understand, when man says
he is stripped naked, and raw, and there is
no part of him not exposed to the elements
or burning… We all die, you know.
There is no stopping the inevitable.
So, if you are hungry! Well then!
Eat! This is everything.
And if, like a wild animal,
you are frightened, I
will leave it here, in the open.
I will stand, perfectly still. Make no
threatening move. This is my
love for you.
And in return?
Is that the question?
The answer is always:
whatever happens.
08.18.09