Leaving, but not leaving behind

Dolce, bambino.

Pilgrimage

There's the house
That looked prettier last summer.
There's the field
Lush and green
It strikes fear into my stomach.
The old, old house
That I saw and quietly loved.
Some things never change.
And the old barn on the corner.
 The one they wouldn't let them
Tear down.
There are houses now.
The elementary school.
Little blonde girl, balls,
Soccer and a weak ankle,
And swings.
Next street on the right,
Second house down on the left.
It's ugly.
But the beauty that lives inside
Is anything but.
I almost missed the turn.
Do you remember?
They had to carry him.
We parked here.
A picnic and kids on the court.
But they left.
It was the three of us and the sky.
I climbed inside the beehive.
I looked for your handprint on the tile.
Here, you said.
Innocence preserved in paint.
But I didn't say that's what I was doing.
The last time I came here was
When we played with the noodles.
Me too
But I don't really care about the noodles.
Just the soul holding them.

I drank pineapple juice
Straight from the glass bottle.
It's organic and good for me.

Kind of like you.

Dolces Nientes

Dolce.

Yeah, I know.

I was born sweet.

The very blood in my veins,

tears in my eyes,

marrow in my bones-

dolce.

My heart opens up wide as the wilderness night sky

in churches with organs sounding,

filling the whole cavernous space,

on adventures beyond what’s trimmed and green,

but not here.

No dolce-no.

I don’t speak your language, sorry.

But really, you don’t speak mine.

Mine is ancient and wild and raw.

But sometimes, a lot of times, I can hear you.

I’m sweet-

Dolce.

Keep talking, bambino. Don’t ever stop.

Fill my heart with sweet nothings,

if only to keep the monsters at bay.

July 10, 2013

Evolution

I don’t think this started

like you think it did.

I don’t think you know that

I wanted you here

for a different reason.

I don’t think you know that

you fix a part of me

you didn’t even know is broken.

But you do.

And I think that’s OK.

I’ve learned it doesn’t have to be complicated.

We speak silently, invisibly,

with words.

And I hear you perfectly.

And it’s making us brave.

The mountains have shut my mouth,

the sea washes away my words,

and distance is keeping us safe.

It’s burrowed under every iron train rail,

nestled in the old Swiss eaves, and

tucked in the quiet corners of loud Italy.

But it’s your turn.

I’m only speaking silently until

you’ve been made brave enough.

And then the train rails,

the eaves and the corners

will yield up

what can maybe heal you, too.

July 19, 2013 (I think)

Hello. I Have a Few Questions. And There Are Some Things I'd Like to Say.

Did you ever wonder

why it took me so long to fall?

Did you ever look at my eyes

and wonder what web of

confusion, doubt, hurt, hesitation

existed and want

to exist behind it?

Could you see my pain, and

did your compassion almost

rule your flesh?

It’s ok if you didn’t.

I flit around, and with one wave of my magic wand,

wispy silver dances in the air,

and suddenly you are not in the same place,

though we haven’t moved.

I’m a handful.

But your hands are strong-

they can hold my writhing soul

and still have a hand left over to hold mine.

I don’t care if they are dirty-

it’s your becoming.

Don’t give up on me-

I only saw the fireworks yesterday.

July 5, 2013