My Heart’s Thin Veneer

My Heart’s Thin Veneer

I’ve stood at your doorway, my toes tickling your threshold,
wondering if I should knock, if I should see if you are home.
I know you’ve told me to come over any time, but I still feel
it is such a risk
to let you see me out of my element. You may ask me to
leave early,
or not to come inside at all. It’s almost like a wedding where
the groom has only heard of the bride and
worrying what she will think at her first look at
the one who has written the words line by line. His
face might betray how afraid he is that the door will stay
closed
well after rapping softly on it asking for entrance.

I’ve told you about my heart, maybe a half of it, maybe more.
But now I stand at your door knowing this time you will
see all of it. The falls. The lies. The uncomfortable way
it shies away from dropping the façade it wears. So far
you only love half of me, and the other half remains in shade.

Would you dare to embrace the darkened shadows
I’ve hidden from you? Would you let me in the door
not knowing? And yet some unbidden hope tells me
my heart may be already welcome inside your own.

I’ve protected it with words as thin as onion skin,
I’ve ventured to this door with a resolution to say
all I am afraid to say. You may think I have said
it all
already, and that may be true. This time I’m knocking
like it was the first time we met. This time I’m hoping
you and I both know what it’s like to be lonely. This moment
I might be brave, or I might slink away. Would you invite me in
once I dared to hold out every thought of my heart?
Would it be like the start of a song with every stanza
unrehearsed and every note belonging to you?

Here it is, my anxiety on display. Here it is,
knowing all I want to say, and knowing the
risk there is in unveiling everything.
Still, I cannot wait to hear your footsteps coming
to open the door.

I’ve Narrated the Road

I’ve Narrated the Road

(“Let us look only to Jesus. He is the one who began our faith, and he makes our faith perfect.” Hebrews 12:2a)

The story doesn’t end there, even though it felt like the final chapter.
The asteroids still circled obliquely.
Bring me another water please; my throat is dry and I have
such a long tale to tell.
We haven’t finished, though we needed a moment’s rest.
The pale yellow butterflies show it best, the way they
flit from flower to flower undisguised as the day lengthens.
The beginning has little thrills,
the middle is unexciting,
but the ending is unexpected and sometimes causes me to flinch.

When you have come this far already it is hard to
see clearly the beliefs that may be unsupported by the facts.
My story is full of pitfalls, my tale surrounded by struggles,
my ending unreliable, my addendum just a summation of facts.
But I suppose I’ll keep writing,
I might keep believing if there are no more suitors for my heart.
I could use a navigator,
a fellow traveler who knows the terrain well. Or someone
who doesn’t mind traveling blind. You take the wheel for a while
and I will nap until our next pitstop. We can write our bearings in
the journal I’m keeping, another chapter to a story I would never
have written if I hadn’t traveled so far. I could use a navigator,
I would love an illustrator to picture my ups and downs.

I’ve narrated the road from beginning to end, from “gentlemen
start your engines” to the checkered flag. I finished far back
in the pack, which explains why so few follow me.
But on further cogitation, I say, without qualification,
that the one who began the race still accompanies me and
has completed the story long before I’ve crossed the finish line.

An Outcast Heart

An Outcast Heart

(“But the things that come out of the mouth come from the heart, and it is those things that make a person unclean.” Matthew 15:18)

Did I hear that you wanted to change the world?
Did I hear that you stew over the ingredients of opposition?
Did I see you making a lie, turning it over, polishing it and
moreover, branding the facts and turning them into
seminal enemies of the state?
Did I see your raucous rage replace the dialogue
of critical thinking? Did I see the way you
nailed your enemies down?

I don’t have the energy to keep up anymore. I don’t have
the reserves to reverse the steady stream of nonsense
accepted as gospel by some of the angriest people I know.
I know because I came from that principality. I know
because once I found my own road (the road I had missed
for decades); once I found my new road they reached for the ropes
and tried to tie me to the courthouse tree.

I don’t have the energy, but my words well up inside me.
I need to sleep, but my thoughts keep possessing me.
I sit outside and wait for one or two who hear the truth
to renew my untitled dream. I’m looking behind me,
looking in front of me,
listening for a sound from the street that will restore
the longing of an outcast heart.

I’m looking through you from down and up,
I know the potions you drink from your deceitful cup.
There is still room for you, still there is time,
to cast aside the poison words, to admit your false rhymes,
and bring it all out into the sun, bring it out for everyone
to see,
the transformation that only quietness can bring.

The Heart Grasps the Sky

The Heart Grasps the Sky

(“Hear my prayer, O God; listen to my words!” Psalm 54:2)

I turned the corner without ever thinking I might meet
my neighbor on the walking path.
We exchanged cherry “hellos”
and traded a little silly talk.
I walked further, toward the cemetery,
and could not find the site where I thought they
laid someone to rest yesterday. I have so many
friends there,
resting there,
that I feel the weight of grief their loved ones feel.
Didn’t they pray for their child,
didn’t they cry out for their wife,
didn’t they name the names of the dying
to the Name of all names?

And didn’t God hear that
I need a friend stronger than death.
And didn’t God listen to
the tears that stained the faces of the beloved.
And didn’t we wish (another word for pray,
though you might disagree) that we could take
their place?

I’ve seen a hundred replacements,
I’ve called a thousand phone numbers,
I’ve listened for the knock on the door,
I’ve waited for a voice to explain it all.

Sandwiched between belief and doubt,
my prayers are not for human ears.
But I would welcome yours, silent as
the first spring night. The heart weeps,
the heart grasps the sky, the heart has
words
that paint a seaside where pain and
relief meet. The heart beats, ready to
write unspoken prayer.

To Sing by Heart

To Sing by Heart

(“Jesus saw him lying there and knew the man had been sick a long time. Jesus said to him, ‘Would you like to be healed?’” John 5:6)

I’ve walked on a dozen sad oceans,
crossed every mountain before snow.
I’ve traveled seven brimming continents,
followed every desert before the thunder growls.

But I have never heard a song like this before,
never conceived a tune that would set me on the road again.
I rarely leave my chair these days,
save to walk with the dogs and children thirsting for summer.

I’ve met you in a score of buzzing cafes,
called you every evening after you have gone home.
I’ve shared a beer with a jovial patron who asked me to
follow them down the road for a spell; listen to their
story for another hour before the bars were all closed.

But somewhere along the way I lost you, didn’t I?
If I unfolded a vintage map, could I find the street where
we both once played? Could I persuade you to
sit outside and wait for the day to fall quietly across
the horizon?

I’ve listened to a decade of polyrhythms,
danced to a wailing mariachi band.
I’ve cried the blues played with the best of them,
listened to lofty hymns at my worst.

But I have never sung with you, have I?
I hate singing alone.
Let us write something to cross the chasms,
let us announce our concerted effort.
Let us abandon our reservations,
let us sing by heart the songs we both
already know.

Skipping a Beat

Skipping a Beat

(“For this people's heart has grown dull, and with their ears they can barely hear, and their eyes they have closed.” Acts 28:27a)

How long will we lock ourselves into
concrete cells,
midnight caverns,
armed boundaries where we shoot
on sight and ask no questions?
How long will we delight in
creating enemies,
launching missiles,
holding on to land that belongs
to no one? Why do we draw
butcher knife lines?
Why do we nail signs to the wall
that keep people out on the coldest
night of the winter?
Why do we aim at targets
only to practice
shedding blood on the property we
say we own?

The end will not come because
you are chosen;
the apocalypse is below your feet.
The second coming is the defeat of
death, of idiotic killing, of insanity
unleashed in the name of allegiance and
national anthems. The match you lit,
the tiny flame,
sets the wilderness on fire while you speak
of holy things. You utter sacred words like
they are your private language.

There are better prayers. Leave the
hell behind, the place you have consigned for
oh
so
many who never said an
unkind word about you.

Father forgive us, and we know this is dangerous,
just like we have forgiven those we believe have
never forgiven us.

Standing aside for just one day, maybe we
can pack every imagined target away. Maybe
we can invite the opponent to stay for the evening,
drink wine late into the night,
and let the cool spirit breezes flow like
music through our souls again.

Perhaps It Was the Poppies

Perhaps It Was the Poppies

(“I will answer their prayers before they finish praying.” Isaiah 65:24)

It was in the shape of a tree, an evergreen,
pointing beyond the skies and dreams away from
the magnetism of dirt and earth.

But there was not a guardian angel in sight. I know I knew
his name,
I thought we were personal like that. But, for now,
the name was locked deep inside my brain, and maybe a
mini stroke had hidden it forever.

It was the color of wind, a gale warning; the offshore flow
dropped heavy clouds with bullet rain driving us inside
except to make a run to the mailbox.

But there was not a ray of sun in sight. I longed for happy rays
that pierced my retinas, tanned my forehead and sent me safely
playing with my chihuahua. She doesn’t like the cold or the
precipitation. She hesitates at each drop.

It was the rhythm of fear, the heart rate, the paralysis,
the constant analysis of things that could go wrong. (Things
had gone wrong so many times before.) It was the wall that
calcified the heart and challenged anyone with soft enough
words
to tear it down from the outside. I had learned to hide; with
raw bruises where I had torn the fortress wall down before.
I looked in his eyes, told him my shame,
and years later everything changed. I sat with him for hours
when he cried about the love of his life. But I understand;
so my wall grew thicker by the year and higher each season.

Perhaps it was the sunflowers that reminded me of the power
of light.
Perhaps it was the poppies that buttered me up to install a
window, a small one, to peek at the days. Perhaps it was the
half dozen friends who never went away. But none of them
knew my shame, and I was not ready to risk it again.

So I walk where the shapes point to the sky,
I ponder inside darkness, I wait in frozen expectation,
and wish for one or the other kind of companion:

A new friend who knows nothing about me and wants to
know it all.
Or a friend who knows it all, and still craves my company.

Today I will travel between dreams and magnetic earth,
I will let the raindrops do their work to wash away the limestone
whitewash on my well-aged wall.

Fill My Heart with Song

 Fill My Heart with Song

(“I tell all of you with certainty, not even in Israel have I found this kind of faith!” Matthew 8:10b)

Fill my heart with song, teach me lyrics from
beyond the border/land. We will walk together,
we will bask in the sun, we will not notice if you are
immigrant or native son.

Teach me your language, let me hear the slides
and staccatos. Teach me your colloquialisms,
colloquy around the campfire as the waves come
crashing in.

Gale force winds/sing louder.
Sea gulls ascend/sing sweeter.
Sea lions play/sing abandoned.
Feet on the sand/sing magnetic.
Head in the clouds/sing ecstatic.

I would fill my pail with the horizontal rain,
I would circle each raindrop with a permanent marker.
I would paste it on the cliffs as an installation of hope.
I would surrender deeper, find the glint or confetti
and trade it for silly talk and sweaty debates until
their value increases. Did I mention the languages
that wrap the globe in miracles and melody?

Let my mind never be filled, let it always have room for
low-rent districts and the dialects that have been forgotten.
If you are the last speaker, I will walk with you hours
a day
just to learn to say
how loved you are, how your cadence shifted
my metrics decades ago.

Stir the Waters Again

 Stir the Waters Again

(“He listened to Paul speaking. And Paul, looking intently at him and seeing that he had faith to be made well...” Acts 14:9)

There is a stirring that wakens the heart from
daydreams and midnight specters. Forged in love and
distilled in peace it
dares with hope to see
summer fruit on a fruitless tree.

We make up animals, clouds in the sky;
we hear new melodies, waves on the shore;
we dance on the gravel, we run on the topsoil,
we see a feast, bread and wine.

We set the table in anticipation of the
next divine guest who,
venturing from the tent city,
finds our door, no longer a door,
but an entryway to laughter seldom heard among

The serious scholars of tradition,
the preachers of discontent who believe their words
are the lodestar to god.

Stir the waters again, God.
We are not well.
Some limp, but most disguise their pain behind
compromises and grins. Simply pretending
to find
sanity in the repeated lines meant to
monitor their mistakes and keep them crawling.

Stir the waters again, God.
Let us go sailing where the tides are moved by angels,
and the tears we have hidden are dried
by secret handkerchiefs that were never quite our color.
But dry them anyway.
Stir us again.

We Embark as Passengers

 We Embark as Passengers

(“May he give you what your heart wishes for. May he make all your plans succeed.” Psalm 20:4)

We embark as passengers,
take our seats, yawn our way into
the excursion
and wonder about the eyes that gaze upward.
We watch the eyes of those who gaze upward.

Prepaid, our tickets are not punched,
no baggage, just a few snacks to tide us over.
We hear the whistle of cow’s breath,
the drifting of black-eyed susans passing
a day in the sun. We wonder at yellow
and mustard. We watch the canola grow.

Our destination is not fixed, we may wander.
After a day of travel our weariness gives way
to curiosity. Who named the jonquils? Who
painted bananas? And do you remember the girl
whose hair was like daisies?

Long before these tracks were laid down,
long before engines and asphalt,
others traversed the open sky from the
middle of the continent. Did they dream of
oceans, or create myths to explain them?

We feel the ancestors within us,
we feel the pulse of their ancient songs
as they keep time to the long train grinding
through the valley into the next depot. What
sunsets await us in the crowd gathered for the
next ride out of town?

Like The Friend Who Slows Down

 Like The Friend Who Slows Down

(“I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you. I will take away your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” Ezekiel 36:26)

I sleep because it is the
only escape
from the relentless hammer-on-anvil
in my head.

I crave attention,
not like a toddler or
narcissist,
but like a neighbor who longs for
the voice of a friend that extends
beyond words. A touch on the back
of the hand
would be enough.

My tears are the mud puddles left by
torrents of rain,
my breath is the only sound my body knows.
I did not avoid you because I disliked you;
I’m stuck in this corral of pain.

If you know me, you’ve seen me
change my mind
over and over again. Topics become
clearer, doctrines murkier, and people the
center of truth I’ve desired.
But my heart, or its orientation,
is unchanged. My spirit has always wanted
a home. A log cabin with a fireplace
and chili on the stove.

My spirit has always wanted to
let you stay rent-free. To hear your children
play in the background. To hear the
mustang you drove, or the
honda 450 we rode into the coastal hills
summers ago.
To hear from someone who knows,
like the friend who slows down
every time they see you.

Today my tears are more like
blood lost
through the ache of waiting and
living too far behind me. I do
not
want to live in this now where
the pain is a broken record that
sucks my attention from

Every tender love I’ve known.
Even your own, dear friend,
sweet son, loving daughter,
and,
Christ, (how I hate to admit it)
feels cold and I wish this long
winter of spikes and icicles would end
in the agnostic revelry of Spring.

Restore my heart that is weary, for
the waiting has me writing pain
where the beauty once began.

There is More Space

 

There is More Space

(“Open your mouth and taste, open your eyes and see—how good God is. Blessed are you who run to him.” Psalm 34:8 [The Message])

There is more space around me than I will ever
need,
unused cubes and shipping containers.
My walls are lined with books I seldom touch
(though my taste for reading is still afire).
Stay in the minimum,
talk with me in stories that whet my appetite for more.
Tell me why I still hear music after the band
is packed and gone.
Tell me how to hear it again.
Teach me the song the wind sings to the mountains,
teach me the sun when the windows are shuttered.
Meet me for drinks, stay for dinner,
let me hear only our voices in the happy hour buzz.
Choose the table in the middle of things and I will
lean in to hear it all.

There is less space around me than I predicted,
crowds of unused voices in cardboard boxes.
My thoughts are crammed with stubborn sanity
(though my taste for absurdity remains the same).
Play in the maximum,
meet me in the meadows that cleanse my palate for more.
Meet me between cornstalks and remind me of sunflowers
before I head back home.
Teach me the drama of dirt, rain and humanity,
teach me the sum of creation and the divine.
Let me have one drink, kneel by the streams,
let me hear it like crystal and taste it like starlight.
Choose the space in the middle of me and I will
green my heart to hear it all.

Banish the Between

 

Banish the Between

(“May he give you what your heart wishes for. May he make all your plans succeed.” Psalm 20:4)

Banish the between us,
vanish the spaces that remain.
Drop the divide, cried and stopped
where the arms uncrossed, where the open
revolved like dance, like love.

Revive the among us,
survive the pauses, fog and rain.
Stop the collide, tried and started
where the brains defrost, where the daylight
snickered like French bread, like love.

In you (closer than far) more hearts beat
fully
than repainted in a day. In us (slower than near)
more mirrors
fully
refund colors and gray.

I’ll take a dozen new friends please,
but just like the old friends who have walked through
the breezeways to class,
sat on trampled grass,
asked question after question like a dreidel,
and never fatally ended our conversations
or lost them in the canopy of trees that preceded

Everything we thought we knew.

Something Private

 

Something Private

(“Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, ‘Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.’” John 7:38)

I want to write something so private that no one will know
it is me;
then I could write effortlessly and
my hope might rise
that you have discovered honey and
bread in me.

I have been untethered, distant from home,
unconnected to earth or sky,
rain or sea,
and the clouds pass far too quickly
for me.

I have no more meetings to attend,
no schedules to keep,
only the blue light from river to my eye,
and trees gone silent because the heat
choked their upraised feathers now
drooping like midafternoon on a workday.

Still there is something satin within
like an azure banner in the wind.
I wish to be transported to sit at
the kitchen table
with departed friends or standing
at the bar
missing half the conversation because
the dj loves funk and plays it loud.

You would not hear me complain.
His hands spin the discs while
his head bounces like David Byrne.
We all are surrounded, we are sympathetic
strings
on a human music machine. We are
streams
where glances are more private
than whispers. We are teeming with life,
top to bottom. There is always water
in the middle of the ocean.

Another Unfastened Heart

 

Another Unfastened Heart

(“But anyone who drinks the water I give will never be thirsty again. The water I give people will be like a spring flowing inside them. It will bring them eternal life.” John 4:14)

My heart is not cold, friend,
my heart is broken. It is
wounded and scrapping,
apologizing too often;
just a sapling pretending to be
full grown.

Do you like my story so far? Or have I created a narrative with
no exit or u-turn?
I fear the dead end will now hit me
head on.
That’s what happens on road trips
when conversation turns deeper than
a quick lunch or the tenth text in a row.
The heart leaks out and you cannot restore
what the traveler heard in your moment of
unguarded truth. The truth leaks out, the
memory is burned,
and the story cannot be unlearned.
Many have parted ways after such over-exposure.

My heart is not silent, friend, my heart is old. It is
wrinkled and flattened,
deflated and out of ideas for
a new opening paragraph.
Ask me the same question again,
I will be less honest, and time will bury
the lie.

Many have silenced their fears at such candid disclosure.

My heart is hopeful, friend,
my heart is watered. It is
thirsty and gladdened
by streams of simple words
from another unfastened heart.
Ask me the question again,
I will not lie, and will let the waters
refresh this time.

We Have Upstaged You

 

We Have Upstaged You

(“The captain of the soldiers was looking at Jesus when He cried out. He saw Him die and said, ‘For sure, this Man was the Son of God.’” Mark 15:39)

Was your voice like the rasp of a
fountain pen on parchment after you cried,
“Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?”
Did they think you were the king of thieves
hanged between robbers on your cruel throne?
Perfection, you were abused;
Compassion, you were accused;
We only saw our own reflection
in the eyes of the one who started world
from thought to mist,
from rain to mud,
from mud to dust and from
dust to breath again.

Did the spittle from the deeply pious
mix with the blood that ran down your brow?
Did the taunts and derision spin in your spirit
while the spikes tore at your flesh?
Did the crowds laugh? Did their tongues wag
and their heads vibrate like bobble-head dolls
and insatiate know-it-alls?

Did your heart break when they offered the
sour alcohol
on a dirty rag to see if Elijah would return
to lift you off the wood where the blood had dried
against your back? Did they ever realize
they got it wrong?

Warriors die as heroes, martyrs as offshore legends,
POWS in redrock dungeons. You died like

Humans die
and yet so divine.

We have upstaged you with our mighty pageants,
powerful senates and threats of hell. We might as
well

Follow Caesar,

If not for the one standing there who saw you
as you are.

You died so human and yet so divine;
the first word heard after you loudly cried
and slumped in a final exhale of breath
was spoken by a pagan soldier when

He saw how you died.

“Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?”

I Saw a Child Lead Them

 

I Saw a Child Lead Them

(“No one receives God’s approval by obeying the laws in Moses’ Teachings since, ‘The person who has God’s approval will live by faith.’” Galatians 3:11)

I saw a sister coming down the path towards me,
her pack shouldered mightily but her knees were faint.
She had authored stories,
and curated before many of us began.
She was mainly midstream
and now she was tinder dry
but still walked steadily toward the
life risen like the sun for everyone
to see.

She wept privately.

I saw a brother lying on the side of the road,
his life savings splintered and gravel piercing his knees.
He had locked away the stories
of the helpless who deposited them with trust
into his heart.
He was partly periphery
and now was flung further away.
But still he hoped mightily for the
Samaritan, the outcast to kneel beside him
and weep.

He bled internally.

I saw the myriads, the unchosen, the torn coats
and the ice floes of winter diminishing. Some
were gathered to drink the rain, others repeated
the same uniform codes again and again.
Some jumped at the chance to be embraced by
the elite clubs of separation.
Others kept traveling without navigation
but knew the destination would one day
come into view.
I saw some discarded, others ignored;
I heard that some were disbarred and others
abhorred. Some turned to greet the company
of friends they had loved all along
to see many with their backs turned
and silence alone filling the space between them.

I saw a child lead them all.

Of Reflections, Tears and Treasures

 

Of Reflections, Tears and Treasures

I never see my own heart well. Mirrors seem useless,
reflecting my previous view of darkness.
And though I’m told that mirrors never lie
I question the reflection that saddens the image I see.

Though I am troubled by what I view, yours shines
perfectly and brightly to me. (do the photons that ricochet
off silvered glass change shape as they pass our perception?)

It must feel like a carousel minus circus horses,
or like the icy bite of winter. Yet,
all I’ve ever seen is a fawn and innocent beauty
frightened by the slamming doors of the city.
I know the sort of tears you cry, and they are
priceless, purified.

I do not overrate it, the light in your eyes.
I hope you’ll celebrate it, even when the morning cries.

I’ve been lonely just like you
(well, not just like)
you are purer than me.

I have devised my own dark madness;
yours has been forced upon you. And still
you love
while the sounds of war whir round your days.

As I lay praying that my dreams would not feature
the meanness I have known (some I rented, some I owned)
I thought of you and wondered
if you see your reflection as clearly
as I see you.

The hours can be giants, the shadows crouching lions,
but they defy the glow and fire
in the heart of one
whose pain rearranges the mirrored perception. So plainly
I will say,
I see the pain, the tears, the rain that seems unending.

But clearer than that I see a soul who wears a pendant
hidden from the storm (a jewel, a treasure, the color constant
against the crashing thunder). Believe my eyes
if you cannot believe your own;
the image I see often comforts me
for I also rarely believe my own.

Deconstruction

Deconstruction

(“I will create new heavens and a new earth. The things that have happened before will not be remembered.  They will not even enter your minds.” Isaiah 65:17)

His heart had been demolished while he
thought he was building a life.
Each belief was a brick in elegant courses around
a courtyard of worship and labyrinths.

He walked in knowledge, he spoke with power,
his words came easy, actions harder than dried mud.
He was water, he was pliant, he was weeping and he was
silent
too many times when he knew the truth had been
left unspoken.

But his heart imploded after the high-rise was vacant
leaving him useless for the corporation’s intentions.
It leaned across the expressway waiting for the wrecking ball
to finish the job before anyone else got hurt.

Though he bled onto the pages, and said he still believed,
he was sometimes viewed with suspicion
because he spread his damage across the table with
the wine and the bread.

No one asked him to leave, but no bandaged his wounds either.
He needed reprieve, he needed sounds of tears in the voices of his peers,
he ached for comrades, he begged for afternoon visits,
he waited until someone would let him know they
wanted him to stay. From far away he knew they did,
but not one sent a card amid the floods of grief on his
office floor.

So, before the silence became louder, he departed;
old wounds reopening like springs in the desert,
like sap from dead trees,
like maple from Vermont,
like venom from rattlesnake fangs;
he took the things he needed, heeded the sign that said
the shop was now closed, took his best and old clothes
to another side of the country.

Because he had partly been rebuilt, he deconstructed.

Entering a potter’s house, he watched as the master’s fingers
shaped the ceramic almost useful. But it was marred in his hands and
before he could start again

Our narrator grabbed the clay, the almost jar,
and slung it against the room. The heaviness smashed
the finished works on the shelf of the workroom; shards
piercing the air, the skin, the wheel, and again; he picked up
the largest piece of kilned clay. Iridescent, it gleamed of summer
green and
sacred blue. Lifted over his head, both-handed, he flung the
final piece and shattered it against the door that led outside.
It was there, surrounded by fragments, he knew his heart was
finished with the brickwork of the past.

And he started, slowly, like an aging painter,
to construct his real life, his true heart, his ever-self
at last.

Facedown

Facedown

(“I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; I will remove your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” Ezekiel 36:26)

Bodies barely breathing,
others deceasing,
the river rising just within view.
The sun baked them and
the wind raked them as they
tested the cracks and mud
for the best way to freedom.

Bodies breathly praying,
others decaying
facedown in the river within view.
A father-and-daughter refugee, metered,
and turned away at the bridge of freedom.

Bodies breathless hugging,
others shrugging
as if the penalty for suffering is
a locked door, and stone fence,
a steel wall and granite hearts
of people who say they follow…

I cannot write it, the NAME, not when
those who carry it lie facedown, just two
turnstiles away from home turned to
hopeless sludge.

A father’s heart breaking,
a daughter embracing
for dear life as they waded the banks
of the Rio Grande.
What were their final thoughts as the river
pulled them down? How do you swim
with arms circled around the little gift,
the girl on your shoulders,
the girl with tiny fingers,
the girl who held your hand
when her eyes were question marks.
The girl who smiled when you mentioned America,
the girl who heard every cricket, saw every bird,
and with burned feet still loved the sand between her toes.

Facedown.

What apologies will we give,
what reparations? Life for a life?

Sit with me, America, on the banks of the Rio Grande,
wordless please, and hear the cry of children who made it
alive. And mourn the future and past,
mourn the dead, and exchange your granite for
arms that rescue the foreigner
before we are forced to mourn again.