(“He gives justice to people who are oppressed, He gives
bread to people who are starving! The Lord: who frees prisoners.” Psalm 146:7)
I left
half expecting to hear from
you (all); I traveled the distance from autumn
to winter.
I settled, and left my forwarding address.
I found the emptiness too much to bear.
I walked the half a block to the mailbox
every day after noon,
and only found four color fliers and requests
for my contribution to health insurance and
candidates in stride.
I was not oppressed, but depression grabbed me like
a cavern of anti-gravity. I hoped to find a few who
would float with me
once they viewed my broken tether hanging in the sky.
I would stare at the addresses, the digits, and the trinkets
that were friends (siblings) and would not leave my room
for
hours at a time. Out of sight/out of mind/but no one left
this heart of mine. I remember your losses and your tears.
I remember buying lunch and sitting silent by hospital beds.
Now that I was aimless,
I only hoped for the arrows of kindness to land close enough
for me to see the name and address of adoption. The ink
on the certificate melted in the rain.
I returned
half expecting to hear from
you (some); I traveled the distance from summer to
the Columbia mid-pandemic, mid-continent,
while the heat scratched my eyelids dry.
Plenty to eat, plenty of time, plenty of stereo sounds
to remind me of loves just inside the next room,
of loves that left too soon, and loves that, though
gathered often before
could not find their way to my door.
Returning, though, I discovered, (like mosaics missing
stones), I was not alone. I was not the only one.
No longer weightless, I sank into the mud
and wished I had, with all my grass and green,
with all my song, not have stayed unseen.
Today I did not arise until well
Into the
afternoon.
