The Shortest Sentence

The Shortest Sentence

(“I will boast in the Lord; let the oppressed hear and rejoice.” Psalm 34:2)

There are days meant for reflection when we wait
to meet you at the station. The ground is long between us,
the air is stretched thin. The longing for absolution,
the craving of love with the proper inflection.
There are days when the rain brings pain,
the atmosphere has shifted again and the pressure
pushes the blood around in my brain. I have no one
to blame but the creator of it all.
But then I see you, eyes that have seen deeper within
my soul
than anyone I know. You make me feel the way I’ve always longed
to feel, the way I think we all deserve to feel.
And you do it all with your own pain front and center,
you do it all as sweet as summer grass after the rain.
I’ve confessed more to you than anyone I know.
I’ve admitted my prayers seem useless.

We might sit on upholstered armchairs in a room
in the bookstore where all the children’s books are
shelved. We might choose a dozen and leaf through them.
We might discover some things that
are just meant to be, like the touch of a hand,
hopes intertwined that say; I share the love so
the pain will not win. I share the affection that
keeps the anxiety at bay. And we would smile that night
at the secrets we know, the secrets we never share with
anyone else.

The only time we ever lie is when we say, “I’m fine”
when asked. I’ll tell you the truth next time if you will too.
Sometimes we say it with rounded sounds to make us believe
there isn’t much wrong. But the pain is the same, whether
we tell it or not.

We would know, sitting there among the stacks,
the inflection really said, “I need you” (we fear to
admit it.) We would see the truth in each other’s eyes.
Softly I would stand and give the simplest wink to the shortest
sentence of sadness: “I’m fine.”

With His Own Scars (An Easter Hymn, of Sorts)

With His Own Scars
(An Easter Hymn, of Sorts)

(“If I must boast, I will boast about the things that show how weak I am.” 2 Corinthians 11:30)

Why the strong-arm when the powers have been broken?
Why the military parade when the victory is spoken?
Power has entered through the dusty sound of love;
Rusty swords and shields are piled to be burned, demons drowned,
soldiers bowed, and laughter from heaven plowed the ashes of
war under the door of a tomb left open; wide open for
round-eyed Sunday drive wonder that peace could be won in
such humiliation.

Power is empty. Weakness is null. Art and love
are etched on eternity’s walls. Empires are vanquished,
poverty canceled. Grace and hymns echo from throats
satisfied after all.

What boasting remains once the King’s refrain is the same
sorrowful tune we’ve sung since invention? What army conquers
when its best proffer is easier ways to make people dead? Instead

The King sang it for us; took the needle, hung by the rope,
enveloped the sword, inhaled the gas, and took the last bite of the apple
every witch ever offered in fairy tales from before time. And so He
won by losing, lived by dying, rules by serving

And dances from sad to pain, from depressed to fame,
the love so unframed it bleeds off the edges of the canvas.
And runs in colors from crimson to snow,
and bandages the trauma of a world in shock
having owned the mocking of immigrants and strangers;
he binds the wounds with his own scars so visible there can
be no mistake;

Boasting is not forbidden; it has simply been forsaken.