figs

i have often hungered
for nothing, and often
been left hungry.
my desire is always
a reaching thing,
chasing after shadows,
seeking the horizon;
too often cursing
what i find wanting.
i should care less—
but i want my mouth
filled with sweet things.
what satisfies one day
doesn’t always another.
we keep moving,
looking for answers
for all our longing.
we cross streams,
explore the high trails.
there are mountains.
we will wear them
down with our walking.

palm sunday 2022

there should be shouts
of joy. hosannas
filling the sky.
my voice should join
the chorus,
wave the branches:
palm, olive, willow, yew.
 
but i have only anger.
yes, there have been injustices,
abandonments, broken
promises. the ones i love
are still the ones i love
regardless. the distance
only grows larger
between my righteousness
and my failure. still,
we choose to gather.
we try to find the words.
 
so now let the stones
cry out. let me sit
in the streets weeping.
tell me how time is precious,
how to find a home
in which to pray.
let us chase out
the moneychangers,
the sellers of doves
together.

winds

All day long the wind
howled. The blinds rattled
and curtains bloomed
into the room. The doors
on the shed creaked.
 
It was supposed to be spring
but the wind was cold.
Biting, even. And yet
the sky was blue
and everything sunny.
 
Then there were flurries.
They didn’t last long.
Flakes melting as soon
as they hit the ground.
Or our clothes.
 
I don’t mind the wind.
I don’t mind how
I need to lean into it
face first. After all,
wind has its uses.

Evenings

We sit awkwardly at the table
searching for things to talk about.
Somehow our bellies are less full.
Somehow our thirst less quenched.
Still we search for words.
We turn to each other
with small questions
and thinner answers.
This was delicious we say,
and I’m so full and
What’s for dessert?
but we are still empty
and dissatisfied.
We retreat to the living room.
The dishes are gathered
and put away.
The table is cleared
and wiped down.
We have our last drinks.
The evening slowly
winds down
as we take
our leave.

difference

today i am thinking about the difference
between testimony and witness
and that difference
may mean more to you
than it does to me
and that difference
may need to mean more
to me than it does to you
 
here is the proof: the story
as shared binds us both
to history, the language of loss
we circle each other
and it is not a dance
there is no joy here
the evidence keeps working
its way to the surface
 
there is only so much listening
we can endure