Sunday, March 9, 2014

slouching towards Bethlehem

An angry patch of red appeared on the skin of my forearm,
I watched as great lumps of white appeared in the red,
a burning, itching archipelago of hives broke out,
allergic reaction, my roommate said.
Allergic to what? I wracked my brain--
to high fructose corn syrup and hydrogenated oil?
to hazelnuts or traces of an undiscovered tree nut?
to love and to gentleman suitors? 
My only fear was--
Oh Lord, I prayed, may it not be red wine.

I sat in the night, with my two letters of comfort
and my constant Mother in her little blue and white sari,
and I watched the warm candles burn
I turned over my shoulder and saw the little white lamplight
and the moon cast a silver glow on the frosted trees.
And I grew so content knowing that it is impossible for 
the Lover to stop loving the Beloved.
And that is a truth we so often forget.
We hate the possibility of lethe, of forgetting,
we find it, in fact, lethal.
So we grasp and we grasp to what we know for certain,
to what we can remember
to the past, 
hoping to read the events of our history forward into the future.
An impossible task--one that God does not even do for us.
So burn what is leftover.
And hold onto what is in the present.
Not seeking to find out the future or correct the past.
But recognizing that fire can erase all the hurts and the pains.
And we move forward, 
our boats perpetually propelled by the currents from the utter east.

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