tell me a secret

they told me about a secret place.
that sounded good to me –
a secret place.
their directions, however,
left much to be desired.

it’s in your heart, they said.
it’s in the shadow of the Almighty.
then let me be hidden away
there, quietly, in that shadow.

they told me that
i am known,
truly known, and,
in truth, i am
afraid of that.
still.

i’m still not quite sure i understand.

all i know is the work
of my hands.
the ways in which we draw
closer to an answer, the questions
pictured in the posture of the body.
the way in which we stand,
or kneel. the many ways 
in which we sleep.

speaking about truth,

i have been hated
for speaking the truth
though i spoke the truth
in love. gently,
measured.

i’m not talking
about a girl. i’m not talking
about a boy. i’m not talking
about breaking up.
but something must break.

whether it is you
or it is me and you
or it is the language
we use to bind ourselves
to others.

i have taught my children
what it means to use words
of life, or words of death --
how do we teach each other
those words?

what shapes each choice
word or phrase; that seed
(good or otherwise)
inexorably burrowing, 
always bearing fruit?

inter alia

waves of distance
          and distant waves

we waive the necessity
          of presence

and absence weaving
          warp and weft and weep

what we miss most
          are wishes

the way we while away the time
          waiting, wondering

whether the waiting
          is wasted on the waves

splash and hiss
          the mist on the windows

there are waves
          and then there are waves

the weather leaves traces,
          whispers about leaving

we waste ourselves
          on walls and wishes          

what will wash away
          and what remains

there are windows
          and there are windows

which one is which.

sometimes there are no words

sometimes the air is thinly keening

we make an offering

of silence

we do not know how to embrace

our lack

*

i have three children, she said:

hope and loss.

well, that’s that, then.

what can be said now

that doesn’t ring hollow?

*

i would take you into my arms

and grasp at the emptiness

i would whisper that all will be well

and all would be well

the choices we make when we speak

of absence.

*

how we long for someone

to enter our pain

how we are still learning what it means

to mourn

how we mistake complaints

as a form of sharing

sheets

there was a time when

when all i needed
was two legs in the afternoon. 

and a book. some poetry,
perhaps; a sketchbook. 

and a pencil. and a pen. 

to nail down thoughts 
more firmly. 

a bed, too. 

a lover, or two. 

then, silence. 

(i reach
for sheets

tattoo a story
of skin)