The spring air, wafts, bumping into my back
It feels like a caress
I tend to scratch.
A "thank you" back.
I lean into it and try to keep my focus,
As I write my goodbyes.
The caress tells me that spring has been lifted
Like Jesus, resurrected.
My words, a dissension
My family, us sinners, gifted.
Though not worthy.
I thank You for this grace.
This shame you have lifted.
But I can’t quite bury these lies of love
As hard I dig.
My words a mannequin.
The shovel a wig.
And I know you know it all:
She was never nearly as lovely,
or slender, so tall.
Despite the shame, I’m so full of wonder.
How hard did spring fight against winter,
To free itself, asunder.
Or did it turn the other cheek
Until God kept the promise
The resurrection of the meek.
A promise to all those in whatever they seek.
All this talk of resurrection
And chocolate bunnies and dyed eggs.
My head spins. The dye numbs my legs.
I want to collect all the shit in the backyard,
Like the kids who are searching so hard.
Collect all the junk and the eggs, even my legs,
And the lies and place them into one giant bin.
Perhaps the one I have cultivated and sculpted within.
The same place I tend to hide all these lies.
My secret, sacred cave.
These "things" are a staunch contradiction from the spiritual
To the earthly side.
I see no connections.
I only see lies.
Especially as I loom near your body,
Leaving you on the ground.
Confused – are you near or not?
Not confused - I’ll never be same.
I know that YOU are sound.
And I take peace in that.
Maybe I will drive up the parkway today,
Sit with Danny’s bones.
Have a chat.
Yes, he will lend me peace today.
Death changes me, though
I am not the one who walked to the other side.
It always changes my world.
Switches things up.
Takes my toolbox and places into the shed,
When God knows we always kept it in the hallway closet.
It comes down and hides my pearls.
It is a mischievous thing.
I have been changed.
You may call me Lidia now.
We were always the ones to blame.
Yet we could always legitimize it somehow.
And I can’t anymore.
Not knowing what I know now.
I lie like Lidia.
I’m on my knees begging for forgiveness.
I know what He sees.
Tagged on my heart. An urban form
Of art and prayer.
Some see it as pollution.
I really don’t care.
There is beauty and art and truth
In the words that lie there.
And He always looms here.
He knows what I am.
And I don’t want to be that.
I just want to be humble and fueled by selfless love,
But then I think of you and your body.
And the still cold ground where
The bunnies burrow in my backyard.
The Earth, and this world, and the love and the lies
And the discernment so hard.
I never knew.
It’s just too hard because it wasn’t meant to be.
I was always fueled to love you
In ways I never could.
Words that could never be said, let alone
So I thought I was serving.
I thought I was good.
But I was wrong.
Because it was never written from He.
We were never authors of the story no matter
How hard we tried to be.
I have served you for way too long.
As you have served me, lovingly,
But our good was never good enough,
And never will be.
Not until we are asunder.
Like waves and the moon
And T.S. Elliot.
A perfect, synchronic blunder.
Like the resurrected Christ
Who died for our sins.
There is no room left in my manger
Or my inn.
It’s be taken.
It’s been named.
Appointed by God for His son.
Jesus was His name.
Never mind ours.
We will never be the same.