Graphophobia

I have not written in years--
and now I notice my hands
have wrinkles-- no longer smooth
and young. Like my mother's hands--
when I would hold them during church
and pick at her fingernails until she pulled
them away and gave me a hymnal to play with instead.
I have not written for fear of
what it could do to me.
What if it lifts the rug and opens the spot, in the heart,
that all mothers must seal and guard
with a flaming sword--in order to keep loving
and losing and loving
again? What if I discover I can't write anymore?
That my words have dried and cracked
and that my hands are now exposing what would
come out of them if allowed to lift the pen?
Or, what if I am released by it--into a lake
I haven't sunk into in years?
What if it sanctifies--
and it's fires burn me holy?

On being a mother

No one told me I would hate
the sounds of sirens- unless my children
were home, in my arms, or
in bed.  I did not know I could feel
like strangling and snuggling
at the same time, but I do,
often.  I am God, in the book
of Hosea, simultaneously loving
and hating and loving again.
When my flesh and blood take to flight,
learn new words, start sleeping in
"big boy" beds- I cheer for them
and cry within, because they are moving
away from me.
Motherhood comes in waves
of mourning.  With each step they take,
the cord is severed again and again
and again.

Cherubim and Seraphim

The thoughts of angels must be soft
and whole and ripe.  They lift
with the wind and settle
at the feet of Christ.  They think
of the stripes that healed the wounds
of earth, the lovely pink string
of time, the constant beating
of wings.

burn

We lost everything in the fire...
the blanket your mother made,
our wedding pictures...
things that proved we had a history.
Out on the lawn,
we held each other and gazed
at the process of loss.
My eyes flickered thru the flames
and focused on a single point-
a metal lamp- standing stiff and alone
as the hot color licked up around it.
At dawn, we walked thru the skeleton
of our house
and cried and cried,
as our life lifted in the wind
like moth's wings.

I remember the morning you left.
I heard you sing,
heard the see-sawing of the rocking chair
kiss the floor and pull away again.
I washed the calico-blue bowls,
letting the water ripple lazily over my skin,
listening to you in the next room.
The mid-morning sun was already sneaking
between the trees as I watched a bee dip
into a lily and bumble back out.
At this moment, I was full and hopeful and whole.
Within minutes, you were gone- lifted from my life
and carried in a box to the field down the road.
I was empty; missing parts of myself.
You didn't sing; I couldn't listen.
I burned your chair,
broke the bowls,
killed the bee.

In the beginning was the fall-
the split of wood, the sever.
Together, we screamed and covered
our bodies with hair and leaves
and hid from the explosive steps of God.

We are now a puzzle-
the pieces which He chisels and saws.
As a worn out creation, we raise
our hands to protest the pain
and hear the roar,
"This makes you whole".

my husband, my wife

Under the hazel moon, we swirl
into one another- with wonder-
we extend our arms like trees
toward each other's face
and touch the pink lips
of eros.