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Show Moon -148 a robe that covers us all with forgiveness too impersonal to face without terror. The lake says, "Dive" and the bottom recedes the deeper you go like schools offish, like stars. There are too many "I's " in this piece. No one wants to read about you. Ewe, lamb. Come meekly to the altar. Come come come come, a drone holding up the melody like hands under a platter; thousands of drones and hummingbirds deep into flowers dripping blood on the floor. It frightens us, this sacrifice, so we run out and slam the door. Take back the curse! Bless me! There's been no room for a baby in this belly of mine. Whatever needs to come out lies stubborn and upside down, though I strain and strain to find the words to free it. But I think the words weave a blanket and the blanket covers me with sleep and I think I am not going to wake up until I find a better way to be born. Born, I think, is for being born every day, born every minute with new eyes and everything I ever was, everyone I've ever known, of a piece with it. For the great possibilies of love we are born, called to answer them, touch them, make them our own. Unclaimed, they lie like rank water somewhere inside us, hollowing out our lives like land sinks, and nothing we manage to create-not children, not stories, not paintings-counts for much in the end without this other thing. I've washed the smoke out of my hair, the soot clinging to my eyebrows. How could I have lived here for so long? I feel assaulted by noise and dirt, strangers pressing against me. There's beauty here, too, but it's the untouchable beauty of an autistic child. This city will never curl up in my arms and let me love it. |
