More Than the Partisan Breath

More Than the Partisan Breath

(“The second is this: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.” Mark 12:31)

Listen and let your mannequin advertisements
hear the announcement, the proclamation that there
are no more chants to learn,
no more verses to memorize of new songs about the
old and dusty windows shielded from the wind.
There are no more rules to post on your sidewalls,
no more careless canyons of echoing sand, no more
patronization of the high voices that pretend to know the
pitched perfect when all they truly know are
the chapters they have repeated from living sun to
dying moon,
the uneasy accidents that sometimes they find
while acting out on their own.

You are closer, if you will only slow your drawl;
you are imparted, if you will only blow out your candles
and watch the smoke rise weakly toward the ceiling.
Did you see the migrant combing through the fields so
late in the day that his sweat looked like halos around his
head.
Did you see the homeless family encamped under the
freeway access, wondering if all of life was just an accident,
a fate to be erased.
Did you see the mothers with holes in their calendars
where festive parties should have lived.
Do you see the fathers flogging themselves to pay
for the sins the gravel preachers could not be expunged.

If you will see them you may be able to love them.
If you hear them, you will find the medicine you need to
heal your disorders before you ever invent any for them.
Let the days bring you home again and let the nights
invite you to explore more than the partisan breath
that loads the shoulders of those who have already carried
labors and lesions, sadness and seasons of gray which
never seem to change.

Will you see in them the God you insist you love with
all your heart? Will you spend the time? Will you make a day?
Will you send them invitations to walk the forest paths with you,
to breath the misty air with you,
to dine seaside like royalty or family
listening to the seagulls fight over scraps of food.
Will you open every locked thought you’ve had
and remake your household with a faith that refuses
to walk past anyone without

A breath of wonder that you learned the lessons of love
too late. And you exhaled the dust from your unstuck
throat and found a sandwich to share with another child
of God
along the road or sleeping on the sidewalk. And learn
that their story is deeper than time or apprehensions ever
allowed.