Time Hugged the Curves

Time Hugged the Curves

(“For no matter how many promises God has made, they are “Yes” in Christ.” 2 Corinthians 1:20a)

Time hugged the curves and could have turned
bitter (the over-brewed tea in the bottom of the cup.)
The ad libs did not come as easily
and the faces of everyone I’ve ever loved
met my thoughts through the fog.
I have auditioned new recipes, new shortcuts,
new days walking to school a dozen years old.

Today you know what I know,
another hit and the engine sputters to the
bottom of the hill.
It will not climb another, overheating and
coughing, I watch behind me for a ride
up the road.

Today I’ve told you the news,
(though the headline might read differently tomorrow)
I would rather cruise through your world and mine
hiding the wear and tear. Repaired or not,
I hear the voices of my children and Dad
is the sweetest syllable. The generations mix
from memories of floating sticks in the gutter
to the times I muttered my apologies too indistinct
to matter. (The headlines are not always honest.)

Wait for me at the top of the hill,
I’m not there yet, but I can see it from here.
You are my exclamation points; my friends,
my loves, my family. My unmapped
meander seeks an endpoint, a place where
we all can gather. A picnic that will not end
with sunset, a week of improvisation,
a year of touching the skin;
sound waves only wear out the heart.

No matter what I uncover, no matter lost or won,
no matter if my movements are slower than when
I began,
I still watch for a ride up the road,
a split second when everyone I’ve known
sparkles with the wink that says,
“I understand.”

The Recurrence of Curves

The Recurrence of Curves

(“Violence shall no more be heard in your land, nor devastation or destruction within your borders; but you shall call your walls Salvation and your gates Praise.” Isaiah 60:18)

I wandered into the
silence of violence,
the recurrence of curves.
I heard people speak to thousands about
heaven and hell in an
isolated haven where love was offered
as a plate of hors d’oeuvres.

I heard the word exclaimed from the balcony behind me,
and lived to see the crumbling of cathedrals.
I walked around every block and preached in
neighborhood parks
the almost-good-enough
but
often-not-quite
good news (those who never raised their hands
might eternally scorch their feet.)

I circled enhanced audio that improved the tone
of the scrambled message I’d learned.
It was always love, but often-not-quite
love. It was always sung in the key
the chosen few knew. Once or twice
a bluebird flew the coop,
but usually everyone remembered the tune.

Yet I had, subconsciously, quieted the song that was
ever-love. My circle was too small for my heart to inhabit
and make room for other residents, natives or civilians.
But my heart made no distinctions; but my circle
made no exceptions to the rule; until my circle was
broken when my own pain broke through.

Pain, sadness, I am done with the madness that defines differences
and rallies behind nations that have not learned that
when someone turns their back on you; everyone knows.
So I stayed facing the sun though I preferred the clouded corner
where no one would see me weep over weaknesses I thought
were drawn outside the lines.

And today, though some stand opposite the sun from me,
we still see, though some forget, the same blaze without regret,
the same consuming love that, now and not yet,
draws, full-orbed, every agitation and argument,
every skirmish and squabble, into the orbit of mercy
and defeats, by dying, the technologies of death.