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.
