Incognito in the Neighborhood

Incognito in the Neighborhood

(“Every day we experience something of the death of the Lord Jesus, so that we may also know the power of the life of Jesus in these bodies of ours.” 2 Corinthians 4:11)

Here is why I hesitate to write,
or at least for now. Truth has become the
newest enemy,
and honesty
the horrendous foe.

For years I stayed within the lines,
no one could question my faith.
For years I wrote without pain; only the pangs
of guilt that drove me deeper into myself,
and sounded like the words the overseers
could hear.

But now, as days feel like death,
I will not describe them with sunrises.
My body begins its slow disintegration,
my mind thinks like a rusty armadillo,
and numb as a glacier until another
hot wind blows.

Alright, though the truth seems unwanted,
I do not desire to write of the seeping wounds.
But it was the wounds of my friends that
lanced my sleep,
the adjudication of those who knew be best.
But all I became was a repository of ideas,
thoughts newly formed,
but formerly rejected.

A mother I do not know was teaching her daughter
how to spell on the driveway with chalk.

I wanted to stop, I walk to dam the thinking,
or to promote the tears I’m told are simply ungrateful.

A mother was teaching her daughter,
and I wanted to stop to know their story.
One doesn’t do that incognito in the neighborhood.
But life has stopped for me; give and take,
up and down, seesaws and jungle gyms,
third base coach and football in the mud.
Exchanges have turned to iron-tipped scalpels.

A mother was teaching her daughter,
and I do not even know their names.

I walk anonymously, I wave at cars to pretend I know the driver,
children are blowing bubbles, a grandmother gives me space as
she struggles to place her trash upon the curb.

But I am nameless; and those who know my name have forgotten
my address.

If this is dying; then what will the living be?