Monday, July 6, 2020

I Am Briefly Made Unlonely

What is it in you that distance insists on worshiping? Or have the miles made me their God? Women whose bodies remain fixed in images, as if one had never been hungry, let alone lonely. My body counts and recounts its scars, not unlike a dog who is unsure when it will eat next. Listen! Dawn comes, a slow and melancholic fire scaling the hemlocks prayer by prayer, until at last the sky utters a soft "amen." I brought my brokenness to the altar, and the altar broke, and the priestesses there suggested I try another church. Who can say aloud what the fundamental nakedness will not? Joy has not been a stranger in this life, ecstasy has not been a stranger. We talk while walking along the Connecticut River, eyeballing military planes high overhead, joking about how "crossbeams" can go with "condoms" if you're writing that kind of poem. The backyard violets welcome me by neither welcoming nor not-welcoming me, and they would treat you exactly the same, and thus I am briefly made unlonely. Doors, like relationships, close but can mostly be re-opened (which is less clear with relationships). Later it will rain but for now there is this light, now there is this warmth. Now there is this function, this healing remembering it's sacred.

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