Like a Teapot Whistling

Like a Teapot Whistling

(“Therefore let him who thinks he stands be careful that he doesn’t fall.” 1 Corinthians 10:12)

I’ve watched you hold it all in,
every word that pierced you and left you
looking for a corner to hide in.
I’ve watched you carry decades of
winter you your soul.
How could there be a warmer heart than yours,
how could the days treat you so icily?
And I know
you’ve waited for the gravelly statue to
crumble,
the one that loomed over it all.
Weekends are the worst, aren’t they,
the days of rest and celebration
are full of after-shocks and night terrors.
Someone should hold a mirror up to the
stone fists that demand complete oblation.

They are feet of clay,
yours are perfectly human.
They are words meant to break everything,
yours are measured like poetry, like morse code,
like parables with multiple endings. You are sending
distress calls hidden between the layers of a cake.

What to do until the tormentors fall?
What to say, feel, cry, or think of it all?
There are rivers the tyrants dam to keep the
power all to themselves.
There are memories that they recreate
to shape their slurs into acceptable words.
And when they slice away your living hope
they blame you for the wounds.
What to do until someone turns on the lights again?

I’ve watched you let it out
little by little
like a teapot whistling.
I’ve watched you shed the tears that
no one ever sees.