Nomological Claustrophobia

If you won't let me jump from universe to universe, or even from planet to planet, the least I can do is jump from mind to mind. 

Next stop: Terry Pratchett. I'll be sure to send a postcard from Discworld. 

Lost Chances

I wonder what it is

that you see

when you look at me.

What is it that caught

your attention

and made you smile

and made you ask,

“What are you doing?”

What did you see?

Was it my pale blue eyes,

under long,

unpainted lashes?

Was it the curve of my lips,

smiling, perhaps seductively,

chapped from the winter wind?

Did the mysterious shadows

hide my frizzy hair,

falling out of its messy bun?

Did the loud street music mask

the obvious absence

of echoing heels?

Since my feet were clad in hot

pink

running sneakers.

Or perhaps it was a trace of

alcohol

in your system,

making you reckless

in your pursuit of fun.

Tell me truthfully:

If I told you

I was only walking home,

would you have stopped,

looked me up and down,

and offered to accompany me there?

But I’ll never know

what you saw

because I never gave you the chance.

I just shook my head,

no.

I kept the truth to myself:

I’m just walking home

alone.

Two Roads Diverge--Stop

Two roads diverge before me;

I know not which to take—

Stop.

Two roads diverged before me;

I knew not which to take.

So I split my consciousness in half,

and along both roads I—

Stop.

Two roads diverged before me;

I knew not which to take.

The left was filled with bitterness,

so to the right—

Stop.

Two roads diverged before me;

I knew not which to take.

Stopping was not an option,

so to the right I took.

But the left I hear a calling,

calling,

calling—

Stop.

Two roads diverged before me;

I knew not which to take.

Stopping was not an option,

so to the right I took.

I saw the leftern bitterness,

as I see the rightly loneliness—

Stop.

Two roads diverged before me;

I knew not which to take.

Stopping was not an option,

so to the right I took.

But now that I have chosen,

I see the loneliness ahead—

Stop.

Two roads diverged before me;

I knew not which to take.

Stopping was not an option,

so to the right I took.

But now that I have chosen,

my mind is filled with fear.

I have a plan:

I will turn back—

Stop.

Two roads diverged before me;

I knew not which to take.

Stopping was not option,

so to the right I took.

But now that I have chosen,

my mind is filled with fear.

I find myself a wonderin’:

what if left I'd been to take?

So I close my eyes

and teleport myself across—

Stop.

Two roads diverged before me;

I knew not which to take.

Stopping was not an option,

so to the right I took.

But now that I have chosen,

my mind is filled with fear.

I find myself a wonderin’:

what if left I'd been to take?

Because I cannot turn back time

and am forced forward to go,

I dig my heels into the dirt,

and

stop

stop—

Stop.

Two roads diverged before me;

I knew not which to take.

Stopping was not an option,

so to the right I took.

But now that I have chosen,

my mind is filled with fear.

I find myself a wonderin’:

what if left I'd been to take?

Because I cannot turn back time

and am forced forward to go,

I cannot do but trust

trust

trust

that this road will lead me home.

String-Theory explains Particle, Particle produces Consciousness, Consciousness cuts String-Theory, Shoot!

I feel like I don’t belong.

A woman among men.

A girl among women.

A master among doctors.

A practitioner among philosophers.

An academic among ministers.

A minister among theologians.

A fundamentalist among universalists.

A heretic among adherents.

But if we are all one

at the beginning and at the end—

singularity and Transcendent Reality—

then why can I not sense myself

a drop within the ocean,

a blue within the rainbow,

a thread within the quilt,

a dust within the universe?

And yet perhaps that is what scares me more:

to be incinerated by the all-consuming Core.

For I find a desire to remain

distinct.

This thing called Identity,

which surely must be

exclusively mine,

is something that claims what is me

is most certainly not thine.

Yet this carrot I am eating will soon no longer be Other.

And unless I begin to hoard

each clipped nail,

pulled hair,

and flaked piece of skin,

that carrot you-in-the-future are eating will be composed of the compost of me!

So what is this part of me that feels I don’t belong?

My subatomic particles differ none from that star!

Perhaps it is nothing more than emergent consciousness

rejecting the unconscious revelatory hint

that constantly whispers, "Your Identity is a myth"?

The Telos of Flight

The note reminds me,

"First learn to fly, then fly away."

But see: I've learned and flown quite far.

And now a fearful voice queries,

"Know you how to land?"

A Fraction of the Whole

I caught myself looking at each of them
with jealousy.
Here I was surrounded by
women of a higher
status.
One might think I have it backward;
shouldn’t the academic
over-rank the domestic?
And yet, I hold my ground:
we were the minority;
the mostly young,
pursuing our own
careers.
Shouldn’t I be proud
of my drive,
of my courage,
of my strength,
of my intellect,
of my self-imposed
hardness?
Gentle voices
and gentle hearts
surrounded me.
Wives and mothers.
Women.
I don’t feel like a woman;
I feel like a brain
with a vagina,
shoving information into my mind
while my soul
cries
in lonely
starvation.
Who am I,
and what am I doing here?
My name is little girl,
and I am utterly lost.

Would You Like to Dip Your Wing in My Glass of Milk?

He said,

"Congratulations,

You are the cream of the crop."

Sometimes 

I believe it of myself.

Certainly

I believe it of Sarah

(With her MDiv from Princeton),

Or of Simon

(With his background in philosophy

And metaphysics).

But me?--

Soured milk.

A fallen angel

Being given a second chance

At a pair of wings.

A flicker of recognition

At the sound of my name. 

What is he thinking,

This programme director of mine?

Will he grant me permission

To hear a bell ring?

I Am Too Full Of Me

I am too full of me;

each step I take weighed down by self.

Abnegation only through guilt;

guilt of me, myself, I.

Or abnegation solely to escape

such heaviness, such guilt.

What will it take to lose myself;

to float freely amongst the clouds?

What will it take to be free of self;

no longer defined by the confines of me?

Maybe the clouds are composed

of marriage-compromise

or the screaming of a newborn child.

Or perhaps those are the means

to cut loose my arterial walls;

to slowly bleed myself of me.

But shouldn’t there be another way;

some other means of escape?

For what use am I,

still so full of shape?

Am I doomed to wrestle;

doomed to stifle;

doomed to writhe

in this saturated state?

Have I been given a Call

that I cannot fulfill

because I am I yet still?

The Dirt-Based Answer to Such Heart-Quandaries as, What is Love? So This is Love? and Do You Love Me?

Love is fleeting.

Love is shallow.

Love is fake.

Love is dangerous.

Love is exhausting.

Love is a flame, easily extinguished.

Love is a liar.

Love is a slippery, slimy-scaled sprat.

Love is petting a purring cat,

and then being scratched and bit.

Love is being asked for my number,

and then never being called.

Love is spending the day together,

and then never getting a word in.

Love is being best-friends single,

and then being deserted for him or her.

Love is ironic.

Love is opening oneself to be drained.

Love is keeping one’s mouth shut.

Love is sparing another and going it alone.

Love is black-and-blue marks.

Love is an open wound.

Love hurts.

Love tears.

Love bends.

Love stabs.

Love distorts.

Love calls out into the night.

Love cries in silent agony.

Love bleeds from a clot-less vein.

Love is this void that cannot be filled.

Love is thinking I’m blessing,

when it’s received as seducing.

Love is thinking this is life,

when all it breeds is death.

Love is pouring me out,

when I’m already dried up.

Love is advancing in confusion,

when it’s time to retreat.

Love is thinking I am healing,

when I’m trailing fractured hearts.

Love is always saying yes,

when I should have said no.

Love is always saying yes,

when all you give is silence.

              ***

God, I thought You were Love.

And that if I was in You,

and You were in me,

then I would be Love too.

But if this is Love . . .

Tell me I’m wrong;

I already know it is true.

But the dilemma remains:

I’m too earthen for You.

To Answer The Call

I found myself on the edge of the valley-induced mountain, looking out upon the darkness-induced lights. I’d never walked up here before—a new view of the city below. The wind was playing gently with my hair. I could hear the trucks on the highway below me, carrying their passengers far, far away. What is so safe about here? Up so high? Hidden in the dark? Sitting above, apart from the twinkling lights before me?

Kevin drifts back into my mind. Sitting on the bed. Tan work boots. Faded jeans. Plaid, flannel shirt. Ripped cap. He leaned over to talk to his father. A Marlboro pack was peeking out of his breast pocket—anything to take off the edge of stress, I suppose. He reached out his hand to his father; calloused fingers, tainted black.

Kevin asked me to stay an hour longer than expected. The prospect terrified me. The last time had depleted my strength. His father had at first held me suspect out of dementia-induced paranoia; then he had held me captive out of loneliness-induced beggary. Kevin asked me to stay an hour longer than expected. I couldn’t say no. “Are you sure you’re okay with it?” His father had fallen twice today. I couldn’t say no. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Kevin reached out his hand to his father, but his father didn’t take it. Kevin was held captive by loneliness-induced beggary. I studied Kevin’s face. Stress cut canyons and sleep-deprivation painted black-bagged eyes. Kevin was held captive. He couldn’t say no. “Sure, Dad, I’ll stay a little longer.”

His father became occupied, but Kevin couldn’t leave. He stood with me at the doorway. “So how are you handling all this?” I asked. I doubted he would give me a genuine answer. Here I am, probably half his age, someone he’s only met once before, and will hardly ever see again. Why would he trust me? “I’m handling,” he replied. Bull shit. Don’t trust the little girl. I let him be. More captivity. More empty chit-chat.

Finally, “So how about you? What are you going to do?” I could have answered empty. Could have returned his distrust-induced shit. But he’s someone I’ve only met once before, and will hardly ever see again—I don’t have time for the vague niceties. I told him how I’ve been burned-out before. I told him that I’m scared. I told him that I feel weak. I told him how easily I get drained.

And that was all it took. “I’m burned out,” he said. “This place is a shit-hole,” he said. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said. “I’m watching him fall apart, and it’s tearing me apart,” he said. “I get drained too.” He paused. Then he said, “So thank you for doing this.” I wanted to say to him, “I’m doing it for you.” But I didn’t.

He went to check on his father again. Twenty minutes had passed since he had first tried to leave. He was held captive. He couldn’t say no. I wanted to say to him, “Give me your chains for a bit. I can handle them. Sure it may tear me apart, but it will only be for a few hours—you’re getting torn apart every day.” But I didn’t, and he still didn’t leave.

It was dinner that saved him. Once more the Marlboros peeked out of their pocket and the calloused, blackened fingers reached out for his father’s hand. “Bye, Dad. Bye, Jaime.” And out the door he went. I hope the chains fell off—even if just for a few hours. I felt them settle around my wrists and ankles. “I’m doing this for you,” I thought after him, and then turned toward his father.

The darkened heights called to me when I finally left. I didn’t want to go home. So I climbed. I crossed over the highway, where I paused to watch the trucks speeding by into the night to who-knows-where. “Take me with you,” I thought. Then I climbed farther and higher than I ever had before. I found the edge: a guardrail at the end of a street. I sat alone. The lights twinkled before me. Why do I feel so safe up here? Up above and hidden in the darkness?

Kevin was only one of the many people who drifted through my mind. “So many,” I thought. So many to love. And I feel inadequate. And small. And weak. And scared. Maybe the darkened heights are a refuge. A reprieve from the daunting task before me. Hadn’t I just prayed the night before that Christ is enough? Maybe I don’t believe it. Or maybe I do. He has to be enough—because I’m certainly not.

And then there is that other nagging question: who will love me? Or maybe it's, who will I let love me? Yes, the darkened heights are safer. Then a dog barked behind me. Loud and threatening--I'm trespassing on his territory. I guess my reprieve cannot last forever. Back into the lit valley I descend.

Grip 'n Grim

I watched as the leaf fell toward me; slowly, elegantly, dancing with the wind; its vermilion hue shimmering in the evening sunset. As I grasped it, cold wetness splashed upon my chilled hand. The misty air broke into a soaking downpour, as the sky released her tears. The sun was laid to rest, and the darkness rolled upon the earth.

I came to on the bathroom floor. The garbage can had been knocked over, and trash littered the floor around me. My head was throbbing. I shakily picked myself up and cleaned the floor. Then I snuck back to my room, hoping no one had seen or heard anything.

The tiny cell screamed in agony. Its nucleus tried to think—tried to figure out what was happening. More ATP! it would yell. But the mitochondria were unable to produce. More glucose! they demanded back. But glucose was not to be had. Deliveries had become sparse. The cell knew there was a famine in the universe, yet for a while the fat reserves had sustained life as usual. But recently an intercellular rumor had begun to spread. It was easy to discredit the basophils; after all, they were always overreacting. But despair began to set in once the lymphocytes confirmed: the great fat stores had been depleted.

I lay huddled on the couch, feeling naked and abandoned and cold. So cold—and exhausted. I finally garnered enough energy to ask for my ragged, oversized, flannel jacket. My belongings hadn’t been approved yet, but perhaps the nurse was moved to pity me. She retrieved my jacket from the back room, and I returned to the couch. I curled myself into a ball—the jacket covering my entire body. Behind my eyelids, my muddied brain recalled a vision I had seen upon arrival. A woman. And tubes. Tubes on her body. Tubes going into her body. She was being fed through tubes. I don’t want to be that bad, I thought. I pulled my body even tighter, trying to disappear. So cold.

I tried to leave the city. A man in white: white suit, white hood, white boots, white gloves, white mask, black gun. A man in white held a black gun to my face. Get back, was all he said. I stood for a moment, looking at the line of other white men around him, and then I turned around. As I walked the dirt road, I could hear moaning from every direction. The stench clung to me: vomit, defecation, blood. The entire city was being consumed. I entered the shack. My sister lay on the floor facing the wall. I listened to her strained breathing, relieved that she was able to escape death through unconsciousness. My head began to throb. I sank to the ground next to my sister and placed my hand on her arm. It was cold—colder than her skin should’ve been in the summer heat. I shook her. She didn’t wake. I could still hear the strained breathing, but her chest wasn’t following rhythm. Agitated and confused, I shook her again. Tears filled my eyes, and I felt my nose begin to run. Tremors convulsed my body. I brushed my trembling hand against my nose, and then reached again for my sister. But I stopped when I saw the red on my hand. Copper and iron coagulated before my mind. I coughed and painted my sister crimson.

“You look like death.” “Your body is eating itself.” “Your heart is so weak; it will eventually stop beating.” “You are killing yourself.” “Maybe you should write your own obituary.”

Look away from me.

I don’t want you to see.

I know I’m on my own, but I wish—

I wish you'd call me home.

Probing Desires

(Note: This post makes a reference to "Safe Place." To understand what I am talking about, please refer to my post "A Winsome Web of Tangles" Dec. 2013.)

            Here we are again. Sitting on my front porch—if you can even call it mine. Most people encounter Jesus in memories; I just encounter him here, in Safe Place. I don’t really know if I invite him or not—maybe he just shows up. Either way, here we are. I’m here. He’s here. We are here, sitting on the steps of my front porch.

            We aren’t talking. I’m not even looking at him. Instead I am staring out at the breakers. Watching one after another crash toward the shore. But I know he’s next to me. I can sense his warmth.

            “I want to touch you,” I say, still facing the breakers.

            There is silence next to me.

            I turn my head to look at him. He is staring at the breakers too. I take in his form. He is dressed in a white and brown robe that wraps loosely around his body and is rippled by the wind. His sandals reveal sand-scrubbed toes. His elbows are resting on his bent knees, allowing his hands to prop his chin. The wind is tugging at his wispy hair, causing it to dance before his eyes. At the moment my eyes seek out his, he turns to me. My stomach drops with a sharp in-take of breath. I’ve tried to identify the color of his eyes before, but it is impossible—they simultaneously engulf my being and flood my desert soul before I can make any claim upon a word of color.

            “So touch me,” he says.

            I pull myself out of him. “That’s not what I mean.” I divert my eyes back toward the sea. “I want to touch you beyond this place.”

            “How is that possible if you won’t even try to do that here?”

            I catch myself mid-eye-roll. Listen, Jaime.

            “Alright,” I say, turning my focus back upon him. I raise my left hand and slowly reach it toward him. His eyes remain trained upon me. My hand reaches closer and closer. Just as I think my hand is about to land upon his upper arm, it passes right through him.

***

            I am sitting in my mother’s study, working on my computer. I hear my mother’s voice behind me. She is talking on the phone. Then I feel her hand begin to play with my hair. A shiver of pleasure travels down my spine.

***

            I yank my hand back out and away from his body.

            “What was that?” I yell.

            “What was what?” he responds quietly.

            “You know what I’m talking about,” I reply, bitter accusation dripping from my voice.

            Jesus looks at me, silently waiting. I force myself to calm down.

            “Try again,” he says.

            I move my arm more quickly this time, toward him and into him.

***

            A friend is sitting beside me in the passenger seat of my car. I make a sly comment; he laughs and nudges me with his elbow. A smile escapes my lips.

            I am laying on my mother’s old water bed. It is early in the morning—much too early for me to be awake. My mother is attempting to lull me back to sleep. She hums softly and runs her finger nails gently upon my bare arms. I close my eyes and slowly drift away.

            I am sitting at the dining room table of my grandparents’s house. The extended family has gathered for a holiday celebration. I am anxious and am silently watching the antics around me. Then I hear my father’s voice behind me. It pauses above my head, and I feel his hands descend upon my shoulders. My racing heart begins to slow. He gives me an absent-minded massage as his soothing voice converses with those around us.

            A group of my casual friends have gathered for a summer celebration. As we walk and laugh together, a friend of mine lightly rests her arm around my shoulders. The warmth of acceptance seeps through my body.

            I am sitting, huddled, in a chair with tear streaks staining my face. My body is tense from shaking, and my head is bowed in shame. I have just confessed something dark and dirty. I am suspended, waiting for the condemning abandonment of the women who have heard. But instead, I feel a woman’s hand, moist with cleansing waters, brush my own. She pours more water over my hands and then holds them tightly. My muscles begin to loosen, massaged with forgiveness and love.

***

            I withdraw my hand from him again. Without speaking, I stand up and walk back into the house. I walk to my bedroom and climb into the large empty bed. I pull the covers over my head and lay in the darkness.

            I wrestle with myself in stillness. I cannot deny the love just shown me, but I want something more. What he has given me is wonderful, but it isn’t enough.

            “Enough for what?” I hear Jesus ask. I hadn’t even heard him enter the room. I stretch my body as wide as I can upon the large bed. In doing so, I discover my answer. But I cannot bring myself to voice it.

            Suddenly I can sense Jesus very close to me. His warmth brushes my right ear. "Closer than a whisper; close enough to hear your heart beat. Closer than a kiss; close enough to raise your heart beat."

Let Me Tell You A Story

Let me tell you a story of a girl who sat atop her world,

where the mountain-top views were all she dared to know.

“The valley isn't real,” she told herself then.

“There was no climb, and there will be no descent.”

But pride was her folly; and naivety, her flaw.

The gods coveted her throne—so high in the air.

They plotted her demise, and inevitable was her fall.

Down to the earth she plummeted, landing outside the gates of Hell.

Bruised and bloodied, scared and scarred;

she made herself invisible, wrapped inside a protective shell.

And there she sat for years to come,

conversing from within to hapless passersby without.

From her lowly abode, she was forced to admit

that valleys are as real as the mountain summits.

She could even remember her valley before,

and the work of the climb she once had endured.

There in her shell, the memories came

of what it was like on that other valley floor.

So nothing is safe, she thought with a sigh.

No valley; no summit; so I might as well hide.

Then a challenge was put forth from someone outside:

“Why don’t you try and reach again for the sky?”

“I've been there,” she said, from deep within her shell.

"And all that happens is I crash back down to Hell."

The Call

The trees. It’s the trees that I notice first. Each trunk, each limb, each branch, each twig, reaching, reaching, reaching for the sky. In worship. In the serenity, I can hear them. Each cell singing, raising its voice. Higher and higher.

The stream bubbling in joy. The butterfly flashing its colors in the sunlight. Ruby red. Sapphire blue. Emerald green. Amethyst purple. Even the colors raise their own voices. Voices that are gentle to the touch, pulsing through my veins.

 The forest harmonizes around me as I walk. The sun dances on my smiling lips.

I place another foot down, and crraack. Silence. The birds: silent. The stream: silent. The gems: silent. The sun: silent and hidden. A cold breeze tugs at my hair. I pick up my foot—there is nothing beneath it.

I sense the sobbing, the longing. But it is stifled and distant. I turn my head and see the shadow. A stick lay in two pieces beneath its right foot. Fear leaps from the trees and crawls upon my arm. The shadow is still. It will not approach me. The sobbing continues, the reaching out. I sense a frail finger behind the shadow, reaching toward the light beyond. Nearer, nearer; nearer to the light, but nearer to the darkness—ahhhh!! a piercing shriek of agony. The finger recoils. The shadow remains still.

In the silence and stillness I am aware of my own warmth and the light emanating from me. The sobbing is a weak call, and yet it is a call nonetheless.

The thunder in heaven is earthshaking. The silence is banished as the trees, the stream, the butterflies tremble. I keep watching the shadow—though its silence is threatened, it refuses to tremble. Another Call emanates from above: SEND THE CALL OUT. send the call out. send the call out _{send the call out}

I begin to advance toward the shadow. My warmth and light are bursting beyond skin-deep, into the dimness around me. The shadow stands its ground. I stop in front of it. My hand reaches out. A tremble shakes the shadow and it takes a step back. Before it can take another I penetrate the darkness with my lighted hand. The cold recedes from the puncture. I grasp a chilled, frail hand.

And hear the faintest fragrance—so ancient, so new—of melody and harmony rising.

Fairy Tale: Extinct

Once upon a time no one knew I existed—
not even me.
My fantasy ended the moment I learned
how to be.

If You Only Knew

If you only knew....

maybe you already do,

which makes me only wish

I'd never met you. 

What Two Distinct Ones?

I am sitting on the steps of the little blue house, staring out at the ocean. All is silent. No wind. No waves. No gulls. Only my breathing. And my thoughts.

I glance over and see her lying there. The woman in the white dress is lying on the sandy shore. Why was she still there? I glance down at my own white dress, reminding myself that she is me and I am her; still two distinct ones. Why am I still here?

I glance back at the beach and see him kneeling beside her. I am not shocked. It is as if I have been expecting him. Or perhaps I had sensed his presence.

I watch him kneeling over her. He is stroking her hair. My stomach tightens in hunger. Why doesn’t he come to me? Something appears in his hands; something round and red. He lays it upon her head. She does not stir. Then the object slowly, steadily sinks into her temple. The tightening in my stomach travels to my neck and then flushes my face. I clench my eyes shut, enclosing myself in lonely darkness.

***

“Lots of fruit in this one.” A woman’s disembodied voice. “Lots and lots of fruit.”

***

I open my eyes. I am no longer on the steps. I am in the entryway of my old high school. There, in front of me, is me. She is no longer the woman on the beach; she is a girl, still in the white dress, but pale and innocent when away from the sun and sand. As before, all is silent; other students pour around us, but there is no noise. I watch as students acknowledge the me in front of me. With each new acknowledgment she smiles and waves. I stop following her, nauseated by her lightheartedness. My gaze is involuntarily drawn to the space on the floor between us. Purple footprints dot the way behind her feet. I bend down to examine one and find grapes; deep, reddish purple grapes. I quickly snap erect and run after myself.

By the time I catch up with her, she has turned down an abandoned hallway; abandoned by all except one other person: another girl, her face blotchy and her cheeks stained with salty tears. The two girls are huddled together next to the wall. I approach. Still plunged in silence, I can only watch them. The white-gowned girl is stroking her companion’s arm. Whenever she lifts her hand, a strawberry remains upon her companion’s skin. Then I watch as she opens her mouth to speak, and instead of hearing words, I see a crimson apple fall from her mouth and roll to the floor. I stare at it, rolling toward my feet, in silent consternation. It comes to rest before me, and I look up, wide-eyed, at the girls. Neither of them has noticed the apple, nor the strawberries, nor the grapes that are still painting the floor. The once-tearful girl is now embracing my other me, a weak smile upon her face. The two detach, and the recovered girl walks away. My eyes follow her in bewilderment: multiple strawberries bejewel her back and sleeves, each mildly resembling a hand print. I spin around to glare at my mysterious self, but my anger fizzles as I find her huddled on the floor.

I cannot hear her crying, but I can see round, plump blueberries falling from her eyes into her lap. I retreat from her until my back hits the opposite wall. Even in her agony she is beautiful. I slide to the ground, my eyes never diverting from the creature in front of me. My hunger returns. But it is more than hunger; it is gnawing emptiness. Coldness begins to seep through my body. Shivers crawl upon my skin. I pull my knees into my arms and tuck my head inside. Water brims my eyelids. As I close my eyes, I feel a droplet form on my lashes. And then it falls.

***

The sensations come rushing upon me. I feel the sun upon my arms and the crown of my head. I smell the salt of the sea. I hear the crash of the waves and the calls of the gulls. I feel the wind tug at my wispy hair. And I feel a hand brush my cheek.

My eyes fly open. The first thing I see is a blueberry lying on my lap, its hue contrasting with my white dress. I feel a hand holding my arm, and my eyes immediately seek to behold it. Then I am conscious again of the hand on my face because it is being withdrawn. I look up and into his eyes. Those eyes—colorless and yet colored without exception—draw me into themselves. He glances down, and my eyes hungrily follow. I see the withdrawn hand. Its palm is exposed, and resting singly upon it is a crimson apple.

“But I don’t underst—”

“Shhhhh,” he says, placing a finger to my lips. He looks to the beach, and my eyes obediently follow. The woman in the white dress is gone.

He gently pulls my chin so that I am again gazing into him. “You are right here,” he says.

I feel him place the apple into my hands. "Eat."

Transient Eternal

You are a phantom, who haunts my

heart—reminding me of the existence of you

and your kind. I used to think you were a curse—

keeping me alone. But now I see you are a

wisp—keeping me in hope.

Fruitful Truth or Truthful Fruit

Interactions with the text of Galatians 5:13-26

Self-sacrifice leads to death;

death by choice,

as opposed to death by another.

One offers life on the other

side.

Even when I try,

I still find myself alive.

“Was I really seeking good

or just seeking attention?”

What is the line

between righteousness

and mercy?

Between idolatry

and love?

Between faithfulness

and dissensions?

Joy

and sensuality?

Patience

and impurity?

Division

and self-control?

It’s simple, you say.

God is the same, you say.

Grey is dangerous, you say.

Be careful of heresy, you say.

Is your God living?

Or is he dead?

Is your faith a mysterious wisp?

Or is it a block of gold to be guarded?

“If we live by the Spirit,

let us also walk by the Spirit.”

Does the Spirit have lines?

Tell me, can you point out his shape?

You can tell by the fruit, you say.

Look at love, you say.

Yes, but love of whom?

Have you loved to the point of death?

Is that even possible?

I still see you moving and breathing.

Maybe I should just let you devour me;

place me on the stake,

and allow the flames to consume

the heretic.

“For our God is a consuming fire.”

and yet, “When you walk through fire

you shall not be burned,

and the flame shall not consume you.”

“For I the Lord do not change;

therefore you are not consumed.”

Grace.

God still loves the faithful

heretic.

Live free to love;

love of me,

and love of you.

All I Need

My heart is a bag of whimsy;

bric-a-brac strewn across the table,

displayed for you to see.

I watch as your eyes glide

from trinket to trinket;

your hands hovering

closer and closer.

Touch it! My scream leaves

silence undisturbed.

Yet desire becomes interstitial fluid,

flowing between each trifle;

trying to leap;

trying to presume (and consume)

your tantalizing reach.

Don’t you realize, I whisper,

I’m only waiting for you to ask me to stay?

My heart is a bag of whimsy,

and all you do is hover.

Pawpaw

I press my nose and hands against the chilly glass. With each breath, the steam-amoeba undulates upon the window. My eyes are trained upon the tree in the yard. It is a small shrub-of-a-tree, and it bears similarly-small fruit upon its branches. I’ve told Mother that this is a pawpaw tree, but she tells me this is impossible: we have no such tree in the yard. And yet my eyes are the zebra swallowtail, feasting upon its leaves from the other side of the glass.

“Mother, Father, look!” I yell, tearing my nose and hands away to glance into the empty space behind me. I turn back to the window. I allow my nose and hands to be drawn again to the cool surface. But a black haze begins to darken my view. I wrench myself away in shock. The pawpaw is disappearing behind black crystals; black black crystals spreading across the window. I stand on my tip-toes, trying to see the tree above the blackness, but the crystals beat me. I run across the room to the next window, but the crystals race alongside of me and the pawpaw is enveloped again. “My tree,” I whisper.

In desperation I try to scrub the crystals with my hand. They are cold; colder than the smooth surface of the glass. The coldness begins to burn, and I withdraw my hand. The black crystals are spreading across my skin. I try to wipe them off with my other hand, but the blackness only furthers its conquest. I turn away from the window and slump down to the floor. The crystals are now colonizing my knees and my feet. In confused despair, I allow my head to slump into my hands and my tears to brink their ridges. The black crystals begin to disintegrate me. I am slowly dissolving amid my own tears. My fingers, my knees, my toes begin to crumble into dust before my lowered eyes. And yet I feel no pain; only the burning cold of numbness. I close my eyes.

“But blessed are your eyes, for they see, and your ears, for they hear.” At the sound of the whispered words, I open my eyes. The salted dust is no longer before me; instead I see one pale, green pawpaw lying on the floor, faintly glowing. I reach down my disintegrated hands and pick up the fruit. I feel its warmth seep into my skin and spread throughout my body. Then the pawpaw itself seeps into me. Where black crystals once reigned, warm and glowing restoration begins to conquer. With my integrated hands I push myself up to my integrated knees and then to my integrated feet. I turn toward the once crystalized blackness and see clearly. I see the tree covered in pale, green pawpaws in the center of the yard, illuminated in light. I am once again a zebra swallowtail, my flight nourished by its leaves.

Son of Sirenum Scopuli

Prose Poetry

A scarlet tanager sat, singing, on my sill yesterday. He was still only a second before he stole away. Perhaps he will settle someday and teach me to fly, so together we can soar and sway.

A Cloak

A prose poem.

The darkness was safe. Even the spotlight was safe; it made the darkness darker. But when the houselights went up, all I felt was naked.