Monday, April 21, 2014

naming the namelss

We all
have the power
to turn things
to fragrant pink flowers as soft
as cherry blossoms

the trick is to recognize
that death lives
beneath life

My eight year old son
asks about heaven
at least
once a week
and so I think about it
So sweet to contemplate
too hard
to hold onto
it is mist and fog and energy
sour and smooth
mixing together
the peepers AND the worms
colorful sidewalk chalk flowers
beside small smelly carcasses
and decomposing trash

it is silence inside screaming
inside a motionless mound
of scarred sore brain cells
cut and sliced
devouring themselves by the moment

it is frozen smiles of ink and paper
and stolen, illicit passion
while still having
to take the trash out
and check the mail
walk the dogs
change the litter box
pick up inside piles of poo

Small warm soft clinging
and tantrums
in the principal's office
throwing glue and pencils and breaking crayons

The real-ness of heaven
hurts and swallows things
with a mouth as big as the world

The dream-ness of heaven
lies in the belly
of an unknown sea monster
who can never truly surface
but who swims
with the grace
of wind through the willow trees
and the babbles of brooks.

It's all the poetry of the moments
between battles about dinner
and diapers and holding hands
and tears that have

no name.