A certain kind of Sadly seemed to seep into my soul. I knew because I noticed a heavy, heart-shaped hole.
I stepped inside the heaviness. My breath blew out a tad. I heard the Sadly’s message. The message was: “I’m sad.”
My sense of awful heightened. My eyes went warm and wet. My belly dropped and tightened-- I could feel it felt upset.
But I sat there with the Sadly, and I watched it gently cry, and I felt it in my body until our tears went dry.
And then I saw a window, a warming ray of sun; and inside came a lightness that felt like feeling done.
I reached out to the Sadly that came in so bereft, but the heavy hole had vanished and the sadly simply left.
And now I think I understand what made the Sadly melt. It wanted to be sat with. It needed to be felt.
I leave a doorway open, a heart-shaped passageway in case the Sadly comes again. I think it knows it may.
We are just passing through Published by Poetry Pacific (forthcoming, November 2018)
The one who shakes IS the shaking.
A person can turn into a shout in the woods or a long spill of loud tears. We shake to give ourselves birth.
The saints ask outright for what they want: 'Put your hand on my forehead.' 'Lay myself down.' 'Go away!' 'Water, please.'
The saints only answer yes-no questions; The saints only answer yes.
After the party From One Way to Ask (Norfolk Press, 2016) And published in Wisdom Crieth Without, May 2013
My friends visit, and I feast, storing up memories, storing up memories for when they’re gone and I stand by the cupboard with my hands, with my hands talking over each other like they do when thoughts rupture
so fast over my head. If forever were mine, I would be still as a painting and reach the exquisite end of wonder. Wonder why. Now my hands are recalling their American faces. I suppose
we’re the same around the world—but being understood at last! Mother, I’ll return. Mother, I’ll return, but first I’m knitting this unforgettable, missing garment from the way my friends are no longer here.
My hands knitting in the Sri Lankan sun, knitting what’s gone, knitting what’s not yet gone.