Wednesday, February 20, 2019

heart's reasons

I would cut off my right hand for him
and other lies I tell myself to make me think—

(Mary, I’m trying to make myself heard,
whispers the angel)

I slowly patch the white stickers over the screws

What are Fifteen Things I Love About You?
1. I love how intelligent you are

I can't think of any more.

Except your voice, your eyes that sparkle, your quizzical expressions, your lips, your hair. Your written words that spill out in affirmation and kindness, deep from your heart.

Something has shattered, and I am trying to puzzle it back together.

This morning, I sit at my kitchen table, and weep and weep and weep. I weep inconsolably. I can't remember what I thought of, what moment together came back to my head.

But I sob. God help me! I cry out. God, I repeat over and over again into my hands, cupping my face: God. Help. Me.

I blubber my way to calmness.

And then I write an email. This is what I will say (I don't say it):

Dear [An Empty Space Where I Would Write Your Name],

Tonight, at Mass, I cry, because I think of how you looked on that park bench on Morningside in October. Why did I wrap you gently? Carry you tenderly? Why was I so harsh, when you were so vulnerable—why couldn't I see how fragile you were? I want to love you forever, you said.
Don't worry, I said, we will. And I betrayed you. Oh I betrayed you.

But I do love you. I love you right now. So much.

I don't send it.

Cover the screws with patches,
the tacky kind of stickers that are shiny.

When things are afraid, they become harsh.
Like these stickers.

Trust me, says God.

God, I reply calmly—
chipping the paint off my fingernails—
I do not trust you.

People need you to love them,
and you need your love.
But not the yawning gape.

I feel a sense of poetry returning.
The world is enchanted again.

Listen to your own writing,
To the sweet unrest of grace.

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