The Dot My Pencil Made

The Dot My Pencil Made

(“I live in a high and holy place. But I also live with people who are sad and humble. I give new life to those who are humble. I give new life to those whose hearts are broken.” Isaiah 57:15b)

Do you see the dot my pencil made;
Can you see the spot my tears undried?
I jotted down the training notes that taught
me to curtsy like a little girl in the face of
the divine.

Can I tell you a secret; will you hear the words
I display?
I never shouted as loud as the rest of you; I didn’t
think
god was hard of hearing.

But in private I ached, I bent, I tormented myself
into believing I was as alone as the graphite period
at the end of a meandering sentence. In public I made sure
I stayed on my knees at least as long as the
last one to leave.

My diaphragm jackknifed and my lungs hunted air
that was so spare in my unforgiving sadness. I was
suspect the whole time. Depression recruited me stronger
than the hands laid upon my head. The last time
I asked for prayer to take away my blackness

They decided to cast out demons and left their hands
hanging at their sides.

Do you see the laser on the wall;
Can you see the light so tiny it nearly faded?
I called in my reinforced bunker for the help
I craved. And though my tears continued

Like something that, if it had been you,
we might share a beer over consolation that
god had placed you there.

Gifts of Consolation

Gifts of Consolation

I don’t have to wait until I hear your tears,
I don’t have to put it off one day to
console you with the gifts I have already
set aside. You don’t have to wait
to hear me say
that I would do anything to keep the
world from sneaking up on you like
careless serpents in the sand.

I would take your anxious shivers into
my own nervous system,
I would punctuate the fears with music
that sounds like a dozen madrigals singing
between the fine lines of loss and quantity.
I would remind you how laughter can
dry the raindrops that sheared the air overnight.
I would assign your name to the best
accomplices of mercy without an explanation.
You would breathe easier; you would see
the meteors cross the late night sky. The
falling stars would remind you that beauty can
pierce the darkness and bright eyes shine
best through the spectrum of tears.

I wish I could tell you I know how the dice will roll,
I wish I could predict the uncertainties of hikes down
uncharted canyons.
All I know is the water still flows after the
overnight fever dream,
I know the daylight will warm your hopes
like pearls adorning your face. I know, even
though it seems little is left, that the wine is
still in the cup,
the bread still on the hearth,
and children giggle while parents watch
their unambiguous play.