A Non-Trivial Salvation

What is grim in me passes and what lives in me asserts again we are blossoms not machines. Satan wasn't the only angel, just the most aggressive in refusing to study his error. Can we agree that love at least feels better, even if it's only making the bed together or deciding to shop on Tuesday rather than Wednesday? Rehearsing nonstandard liturgies has become a de facto career, against which my poverty no longer needs to defend itself. The visible mountains are gray against grayer skies, all blurred by February rain trickling down the window an hour before noon. My family of origin and its sundry tentacles mock my obsession with glass, my collection of bottles and goblets and prisms, yet the loveliness I have discovered in the company of the breakable has been a non-trivial salvation. So I was born and will die, so what? This marriage abjures the wedding in order to hold me through uncountable nightmares. Mercy abides in the antique heart. I thought my suffering was private or necessary but look! When I crawl towards the light, the light expands to include me, exactly as if it were home all along. This poem - a poor note of thanks at best - is a sacred warrant, sufficient to us both.