The King’s Speech

“Today, I will talk about
gaslighting,” the boy
started his speech. I
smiled, proud of him
for choosing such an
interesting topic.

As he continued, though,
the parts of his speech
meant to be dry facts,
hit all the soft, wounded
places I am trying to
let recover and heal.

“Gaslighting is a form
of mental and emotional
abuse. Sociopaths [his
word, and yours] will
nurture, then ignore,
then nurture, then
nurture again, causing
the victim to lose the
ability to trust their
own recollection.”

How many swinging
catwalks did I
learn to navigate,
legs aching as they
tried to find safety.

How many times did
I praise the safety
of your hand, tell
you how much I
appreciated the steady
guidance it provided,
not seeing that the
other was the hand
pushing me off balance
the whole time.

“I’m giving this speech
because none of us is
perfect. We all might
be gaslighted or gaslight
someone else. But the more
we know the more likely
it is we can take care
of ourselves,” He finished.

I smiled, nodded, and
in my heart I sighed and
said, “Yes. We can.”

The Prayer

When the unthinkable happens
and we are without words
that could console or heal.

When the tragedy is too senseless,
the wells of our sorrow without
any seeming end to its depths.

When there are no answers–
only questions, anger, the
curled fist, hurling at the sky,

Why
Why
Why

a gaping, sorrowed wail
echoing through the night,
making it darker still.

In those moments, all
we can ask for is grace.
All we can plead for,
when it seems no haven
exists, is some small
spark that, someday
maybe, it will not
be so bad.

May we find that grace
in the hand we squeeze
a little tighter tonight,
the embrace we give without
question, the “I love you”
exchanged with no pause in
our breath because we know
how unruly and unreckonable
the world can be, moving,
it seems without a care
for our wellbeing.

In those moments, let
joy– somehow still
ever-present like
the sun that never
ceases to rise, despite
the death dirge that
rang through the night–
run in the hand, the
hug, the breath we share.

When it seems like
there is no possible
answer, may my soul
find the strength
to hold onto those
things like the last
flickered smile before
the light shuts off
at night.

Let it find some
kind of foundation
in knowing that,
as each day and
its everpresent sun
somehow still rises,
so, too, will we.

And even though
it is not enough,
we pray that somehow
it will be enough.

 

 

Bones

Fuzzy-fingered, she pulls up
old messages— an archeologist
searching for some kind of
hidden meaning or a code
she could not break. Maybe
now— when the dust has
settled and the light is
better— she will be able
to understand what happened.

Instead, flips through the
old notes, trying to figure
where the bones of her
being started to shape, and
whose fingerprints were there
that she might need to erase.

“What is the half-life of love?”
She was sure she’d read that
in a book somewhere— the
words not quite clear, yet
something clearly moving
through her soul already.

She stops, finally, takes
a breath, puts the notes
away and heaves a heavy
sigh, with breath like barley—
ready to be let go, renewed.

She looks deep within and
knows, suddenly, that
the only fingerprints on
her skeleton are hers,
slowly building, patching
healing, every time she
finds herself broken.

There is no erasing to be done.
There is just the smoothing
over of the places once cracked
now stronger than they were before.

Find the Body Home

I wrote but didn’t publish poems the past few days.


Stop. Breathe.
You have time.
You don’t need
to put everything
down all at once.
You don’t need to
live everything
all at once.

Find quiet pleasure
in the feeling of
your breath swelling
then ebbing out of
your chest, knowing
you have your body
to come home to.



burn it all down now
the anchors tied to your feet,
the harbor you made.

 

The Body at Peace Time

She breathes, lays her
back against the couch
as she takes sinks into it.

The cool glass rolling
across her lips. She
closes her eyes and
appreciates the quiet
whirring of the fan,
the blinds rustling.
This, she thinks, is
what peacetime feels like.

For so long her body
has been a battlefield.

It is hard to come to rest
when you have trained
your ears to listen
for signs that the calvary
is coming, waiting for
the bomb to drop— not
just for the aftermath
that will rip through her,
but for the way she
will pay for existing
to be bombed
in the first place.

Now that she has
walked away from
the war, it is strange
to try and live normally
again, sometimes.

What does it mean
when her body’s
ability to feel safe
is novelty and
not the norm?
How long will it
take for her to
stop listening for
the whistle of bombs
every time the wind
rustles the blinds?

She rolls the cool
glass against her
lips, breathes, and
tries to see if she
can learn to train
her body for peacetime
too.

At The Cathedral

Hush, look up in awe.
See the redwoods rise,
and feel the breath in
your chest lift to meet them.

Put your palm on the base,
shocked at how soft the bark
feels underneath your hand.
The crevices are so deep
and dark, they looked like
they were carved in stone.

This is no cold stone, though.
This is teeming and alive,
rough and supple under your palm.
Spiders weave delicate and
intricate webs inside the
places where the redwood’s
small, dark slabs layered over
like a thatched roof, dips
dark into itself. Mossy
softness, like streaks of
paint, a child’s hand across
the canvas, runs up and along
the massive body of the tree.

The rustle of leaves
makes you look up,
makes you realize just
how small your hand is,
your whole body and being
are, really, in this place.

Still, the treetops call,
invite you to see the decay–
cracked, brown, broken leaves
slowly turning  dead to
fertile– at the roots, all
the way up to soaring
branches above that weave
shadow-green lace, ‘God’s
kaleidoscope,’ you marvel.

You stand there, wondering,
as the redwoods ask you
to look at your own supple
softness, to see the places
turned brittle, let them fall
and feed your roots. They
ask you what you will let
die so you can meet them
up there.