Unfaithful

Dante, in his fictional portrayal of hell, put traitors at its dark, tortured core.

To betray love and abandon those close to you was a big deal for Dante.

As a writer, that is…as a man he was no hero.

Few of us are.  We are all unfaithful to someone or something–our high school crush, our diet…something.

To be human is to cheat a little, I guess. But we must acknowledge this–we, each of us alone are responsible for the lines we draw around what we hold dear. 

Draw the lines wrong and the “dear” slips away.

We tell ourselves–I will not go past this point of demarcation–a line drawn just past a “something” we should already not covet or consume.

We say to ourselves either–

I will not do this

Or…

I deserve…

It is the “I deserve” part we should pause to examine.  Sinners (a quaint old word for all of us) tend to justify their infidelities with deserve and must have.  Then cloak the indulgence in the illusion of secrecy–no one will know.

But Someone always knows.

He knows because He is God, and by definition omniscient.

He knows all our secret stories of unfaithfulness, squalor, and sin because they were poured out on Him 

In the rictus of the Cross

In the jeers of the crowd

In the agony of physical abuse

In the final unbearable…

In the final unbearable He bore to make us 

Faithful.

War Paint/Girlchild

I have a friend who punctuates correspondence with the lovely benediction–know you are loved.

Elegant, but a bit abstract for some of us.

I love you–more direct, but can you believe me?

Sometimes celebrity can be a strong drug.  Knocking out some of our healthy need for solitude, privacy, anonymity, and humility.

When you lost the fight with Holms I grieved with you.  Her win was methodical and clearly well-thought out.  But some of us love you for your slugger’s heart.

You did not need to hide your scars on the way home.  We all have them.

Glory in the well-earned blows.

But watch out for the body paint. SI has been treating legit female athletes like sex doll pin-ups for years.  Playing to the testosterone of their average-joe readers is not good enough anymore.

Women like you deserve to have the paint of your fame be in each well-fought achievement.

Not your sex appeal.

Keep your clothes on and fight girl. Know you are loved.

“Completely Legal”

when discussing

Atrocity

I find that it is best to begin

With scenes (at least a single scene)

Of domestic tranquility–

A sister reads a children’s story to her little brothers who have memorized the words.  They punctuate the story with lines of dialogue and laughter…

Because

If you do not see them–real

Alive

Vivid

Indelible

Then you won’t understand the tragedy when they go missing

Completely legally, of course

The voices in support of holocaust of one sort or another are always quick to point out

Everything they did to destroy the wee ones was completely legal

–The stripping of their rights

–The dehumanizing monikers

–The methodical pillaging of their history, family, identity

–The medical framing of their naked deaths

–The sanitized commodity of their skin, blood, stems, and cells

–The clinics where they do their tinkering

Piecemeal

Tiny pieces

–All government sanctioned

–Legal to trade in and cultivate small

Parts

Tell me again

How

Piles of skin and hair and blood

Can be so..

Bought and sold.

Where was the conference room? In what hotel?

They served a light

Lunch/over the topic

How to separate the spine of a…

living soul

The way a man would gut a fish

A writing assignment 

My darlings,

I owe you a writing assignment.  Clear diction, even sentences.

Instead

I give you loose

Verse

Words spilled together on the floor of my anger 

Over forms I filled out long ago

A victim’s impact statement

Should never just get

Lost,

Flutter to the ground through exploded sky 

Drift down in a mute opera of

Tragedy

Is when the antagonist

Betrays love

That is such a simple thing

You throw a rock through 

A stranger’s window

Draw lines of 

Demarcation between 

What we forgive and what cannot be

Forgiven is such strong 

Drink

In the prayer of a child

There is anger and confusion 

What God? What Prophet?

You look among these spent and bloody stones

I know he is gone, full flight

And we will all

Rise, birds in flight

In this winter-dark sky

A Tree is not a child

I plant the tree

In sight of the house

Hoping it will ease

The pain of losing you

I look to it

As the winter wind sweeps in

Tempted

To wrap a deep 

comforter

Around her

Nymphan shoulders

Through the storm

This is when I know for certain 

A tree is not a child

No marker, nor even

thing with living roots

Can supplant you

My lost daughter

Only fragments of an old, old story

about tears, feet, hair and costly perfume

Broken, poured out

Can signify

This loss between us

And what he is willing

To pay to bring you,

us-

Back again

Whole.

Crap you get for Christmas 

so much processed sugar

And  make up, bath soaps

Festive pjs

You name it–

Well meaning people trying

To fill a void with empty giving 

Insulin shots and loneliness

To gap a story so unsparing 

God born in a barn

(Is bad enough)

But what is up with putting a

Newborn in a trough?

Trough?  Your voice rising to the question

Why a trough?

No downy blankets here 

Most unlikely place for an infant 

King 

Amidst the crap

Because…

Because…

That is where so many ordinary children are born

And die amidst the squalor of a loveless world

A Light shines for all of us

Not an easy path 

From dung to gold

But more like alchemy

Tiny child born

To make treasure

Out of all our crap.

A Quiet Storm

we ate at this amazing burger joint tonight

After slogging through a day of wandering and 

Words less crafted than sold

We waited 

The last two burgers 

Did not appear

Did not appear

Our server came over to say

I took the last two burgers off your bill

They are coming

But something happened to slow them up in the kitchen

A quiet storm…

Huh, I thought

All those empty words all day

And here she is 

A poet.

Big Box Stories

I bet when 

You thought

of the Day of Judgment

You did not realize

It would come upon you 

In the Walmart checkout line

Or some place like that–

Long lines

Tired employees

Lurid magazines 

Shouting things like

“The terrible death of cheesecake”

Or

“Vegan chili cheats on Cher”

But I am here to tell you

I have seen it

There.

The Day of Ultimate Truth

Right there in the checkout line

At any big box 

Store.

How bad do you want

That case of diet soda?

Bad enough to lose your cool?

Or are you the 

Mother and father

So focused

On this beautiful child

Between you 

This is family

He never said it wouldn’t be

A pop quiz.

The Keepsake Heartbeat 

I research two sides

Of the exact same

Human story–

Old men’s eyes

injected with 

The stem cells

Of children 

(To ward off a besetting blindness)

So small they call them

Blastocysts

Because it is easier to

To tear

Someone apart if

We call them

Blastocysts… 

Not the same

As the Doppler 

Searches across the mother’s

Skin

For a tiny

Keepsake heartbeat 

Some-where-Some-One

Always loves

These little ones

No matter what we might

See or not choose 

To see 

about their

Fragile legal status

Or translucent eternal

Skins.