Like a time traveler, Lazarus returns, sits with me on the steps of the old San Antonio house
We hug our knees together, the way children do
I tell him my losses
And he tells me his founds
–you never forget the way
Dim shadows turn to light.
It is 4:53 in the morning and the-multiverse-you is sleeping somewhere
(Perhaps held in the arms of her beloved)
…she does not know about the foster children, or the loss, the things you use to distract you
From the sound of being cracked open
a meal, a primitive marine creature–a crab, a lobster, a clam
The oral surgeon calls the missing piece of you by the kind of nickname you might use for a lovable but naughty child—that little stinker or cuss or rascal
Only, the-multiverse-you tells it as though it were a puzzling but mildly discomfiting dream
No mention, no hint even
Of global dishevelment and chaos on the planet where she sleeps,
untouched
As you fiddle with various words for comfort to mask the pain
In all the broken places.
When I was dealing with the trauma of finding out that a little boy I had taken in as a toddler had grown up to become a terrible person I
Had three things
I decided to use as grief-points:
Get a nose ring
Shave my head
Get a tattoo.
This week I have had to face that sometimes “a tattoo” is a luxury item
In a pandemic
In the way grief
Can worm its way into the fabric of who a person is
I am losing something else
Like a tattoo, a marker of the grief
And I found what I would put on that tattoo–
Love is
Unmistakable
You name it
The thing you will lose
Have lost
Are losing
Give it a fictional name
Tell Quint not to wait for you
Because this grief
Is just killing time
I know something about being pregnant in a crisis. My heart goes out to any women who are facing a pregnancy in the midst of economic hardship and fears of Covid-19.
If you or someone you love needs support or prayers. Please leave a comment and let me know how I can help.
I can’t stop thinking about how he lets us
Draw pictures in the wet cement
Our little hands, our squiggly messages
No one would call this art
But they might call it
Mine, fierce love
There are things that happen in the indelible. First, time becomes a character in the story, exerting control over both the narrative and the heart rate. It moves through each room, touching old pictures and hidden spaces, spinning a cocoon so thick it makes normal movement impossible and must be pulled apart like spun sugar
Next, change
Old you out to sea, pared down, bereft
So you
Write down promises
On every doorpost, every lintel, every exposed beam and limb
Let the words become living things
A forest in the house
Revelation 19:16 NIV
[16] On his robe and on his thigh he has this name written:
king of kings and lord of lords.
She calls him King of Heaven. I like that
Evoke the way you effortlessly possess
The sky, the clouds, rolled up One Day for something new. I want to gather these flocks of clouds, the silvery colors of this matchless afternoon
Wonder what is written on you
Wonder what you will write forever
On me
Mark me
Mark me out as your own
Darling, I have no right to
Look for you
At every bus stop, mailbox, broken sidewalk, out of the corner of my eye as night falls
No right but your love, so true
Been there all along
Carrying Light 