The Place Beneath
The droplets of water that cling to the windowpane know something I don't.
They refract the city lights, which glimmer
and swim in and out of focus.
Somewhere tonight, parched cornstalks
stretch their husky green hands to the sky,
receiving the blessing.
I sit at my desk, neatly filling in squares on a calendar,
arranging shirts by color in a closet.
Somewhere else, a man in a boat
surrounded by ocean
turns his face to the expanse above,
feeling tender touches on his cheeks: reminders
that he is yet protected.
I line up shoes, close cabinet doors,
read the news, light the stove.
And somewhere else, perhaps just beyond my window,
a birdbath drinks its fill,
never begrudging the giver,
or questioning benevolence.
Just as willingly, it passes its gift on to the birds.
Meanwhile, my table is set for one;
my countertops shimmer.
It's nice and dry inside.
The End of Futility
The first song
appeared to me in a dream, on fire,
alive and strong.
It told a story --
was it about me? Or simply for me?
The silent moon
and the ancient sun crossed paths
as they ascended a mountain, united
in their war on darkness.
And an endless summer
came, undisturbed by the shimmer
of snow-capped peaks.
As the dream went on,
I longed to be subsumed by it.
I would tell
of what I had seen
or keep it to myself;
either, if only I could belong with it.
The story seemed to say
that my reward would come to me yet.
As the dream faded, a newborn star
blinked far away,
as if to whisper,
this story is true.
Immersion
I wanted to be baptized again
because I thought I had failed my faith
and it had failed me. I walked slowly,
gingerly, so the pieces of my heart
wouldn't bump into my bones
and shatter completely. I wasn't sure
whether the first time was real.
The tepid pool in front of the church,
my stiff white robe, and the preacher's
rough hand on my forehead;
camera flashes in the front row and Easter
lilies beside the pews. That little girl
had no way of knowing how she would treat
life, and what it would do to her in return.
I needed to go under, feel all of the years
since that moment drip off my skin
and disappear forever into the sea.
To come up again feeling a bit more whole.
So I headed to the beach, thinking I would join
a long line of first-timers, step into the shallow
foam like they did, hold my breath
and then breathe again.
Instead, after everyone else had their turn,
you asked me to sit on a rock.
You had a bowl, plastic, old Tupperware
maybe, which you filled with warm seawater.
The others gathered around me,
still wet and glowing from their rebirths.
Your hands, rough but gentle, washed my feet.
The miles of sand began to scrub away
and I felt the air enter my lungs, scented with jasmine
and salt. You smiled.
"You are already clean."
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