Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Four Conversations with Heaven

My hands want you all up close under my skin but my
brain asks for an arm’s length to be able to take you in
better and my small quivering core is straight up scared.
I think my heart’s a liar. I’m too afraid to ask.
If I’m right I wrong you;
if I’m wrong I’m righteous.
If it’s true I douse love’s jealous fire;
if it’s not I’m safe at pyre.

You asked me if I’d listen,
after giving me twelve
hours’ worth of ears
(five years at least of tears too). I said Yes
but could you use more metaphors?
You know how easily I bore.
I must have wanted you
to set me all aflame
with holy wrath.

My right hand keeps getting burned
on the edges of these messengers
of yours
I brush away. Their fire
doesn’t seem as bright
and true as somewhere
inside  my stubborn cage
of flesh I know it is.

Is it really a lie? I don’t leave it behind?
this broken thing, brittle bone and sagging skin.
It’s too heavy to bring with me, if I must;
too light to stand at the roaring end
of everything. Where will it go?
What do you plan to build with this
demolishedness of mine?