Stay Until

Stay Until

(“Heal the sick there, and tell them, ‘The Kingdom of God is near you.’” Luke 10:9)

I’d like to share a platter of fruit, a diving pool full of
happy jello, and see your face the moment it all runs out.

Because it never runs out.

I’d like to hold your hand forever, and never ever have you
wonder why I held it so long. I’d like to look in your eyes and
past the apprehension you felt, we felt, they assumed they knew too well,
to only see tears because the connection remained unbroken without
doubt, without
shadow,
without
pointing out
our gaze had met for longer than culture’s appointed season.

I’d like to bake you a bread, a toast with wine and cheese
outside the electric wonders of modern convenience. I’d love
to know your name and never forget it. I’d love to call your number
over and over without a single question from onlookers about
running up the bill.

I’d love to trash the suspicions, blind the onlookers,
silence the reporters who interpret everything they never heard us say.

I’d love to give forgiveness for once
in a way that made a difference. And I’d like to receive
it once, in a way,
that didn’t make me feel

You were doing me a favor.

I’d like to heal every scratch the nettles barbed,
I’d like to patch them with pink and yellow bandaids
and pour you an ice tea until the medicine starts working.

I’d like to give mercy one time too many
and receive it in pools full of late night swims
mid August with every person (teen to limping)
I ever laughed with our about and stay until

No one threw us out.