To Combine with Mine This Time
(“Jesus burst
into tears.” John 11:35)
Why must you call it
drama every time I cry?
Why must you mock my tears?
Every time my brain buzzes with fears
my walls of security shatter like shards. You can
dig the tells of my anxiety and never piece together
my history well. Generations have piled their
refuse in every layer you run your grainy hands
through.
Do not turn away when anxiety
vibrates in me like
mock certainty. Look inside to see the ruins
mixed with the hard rains of volcanic eruptions.
Then pull back your hand. Then act like you will
never understand.
But not until you have
picked through the tunnels that
swords and battles have carved through the fading grip
I have on sun or joy. Or the way I slip descending
the lava slides. Or the way the hailstones
have pocked my head into submission.
Turn your eyes away from
my failures. I will
stumble
again.
And the rubbish pile will grow larger while I
barter for a simple breath of fresh air. Look
at
me
again
and
again
if only
to dry my tears this time.
I am not dead; I am only waiting
for the hands of
one person
who knows me well enough
to let their tears well up
to combine with mine this time.
To combine with mine
this
time.
