The Table

A poem for my beloved.

 

You built it again

like so many things

each time better

(that's how you hope)

The one before was lighter

but warped from keeping water

that it needed to let go

Your frame was good,

we kept it in the move

then twisted together

assembling a skeleton

set alone in a dining room

With nowhere to eat

for so long

you found different pieces

laid them down

pierced and bound across

in patience they dried out

Those seated at the table

do not know

it's hollowed underneath

from heavier things

A testament of youth

and emptied hearts

still saying:

Welcome

 

 

Ps 23:5

Devotion

Am I supposed to want you every morning? 

This heart is virgin to joy

but the hymen's broken

by Fathers of Faith

who merely traded hookup hearts

for Sunday stages

 

They stand

behind the pulpit

bending congregants

to (their) fervor and (your) will

Commending the dailyness

inseminating naive wombs of souls

with doctrine

violating the sacred message

that is in an empty tomb

So I left

 

god is N O T H E R E

 

I AM unfaithful

grace in a b a n d o n m e n t

formless and void  

is more like a heart of flesh  

than these elders

have ever known

The absence is welcome

 

I don't want you

How could I 

when I've never even been

a p a r t  

is it that odd

for the woman to say

no?

Did your spirit overwhelm Magdalene from the torture of seven

to fill her with just one more? 

Church like pimps finding lovers for their holy harem

 

The voice inside me calls

B E W I L D E R

So I run to the desert

and realize not mine

but your devotion

to leave

me

 

a l o n e

Lovers

I read the word:

Lovers

and think

there will never

be space for me

I have for children

and nothing to spare

there will be

no midnight trysts

except to calm nightmares

no aphrodisiac

except frozen food

that's all I've time

to make

so they can eat

 

They made sure of this

I made sure of this

Did I make sure of this?  I'm not sure.

Those pro lifers

created an organization

of living

hell

motherhood is not a calling

 

It is a sentence

and you may

not survive

 

Constantly admonished

to think of blessing

to offer sacrifice

to die

to care for all

but one self

 

So I've decided

not to be

a mother

or a lover

or a maid

or a cook

or a chef

or a warrior, volunteer, go-getter, doer, be present-er, organizer,

better or worse

 

I'll just be me.

They will be they.

 

And little child

all one two three four

of you

At one three six seven

will see

your me

 

and we'll learn

to love

our selves

Together