I thought forgiveness was a choice
like wearing the black shoes with
the grey tights, face arranged
for the mirror. I thought I could
make a bouquet of my thoughts,
thirst clipped to the small bowl
of understanding. Politely,
I swallowed my life as if I
were smuggling myself in
until rage burned my bones
clean. Blood the story passed
from mother to child who
decides when it is time
to turn the page, his room
a cage of wobbly words.
Can I pet them, he asks,
understanding already
the gravity of permission.
Yes, this is how they like to be
stroked, under the chin and
down the back. Which is how
the words learn to trust him,
grow tame in his human
hands until they are unwilling
to leave at all, flight
trained to pen, to page.
5 Comments on “Dear God,”
Beautiful…
Yes, like so many other things that look like choices, the closer you look the less optional it seems 🙂
Wonderful poem!
Thanks so much, Jeff and Dale! Nothing is ever exactly as it appears, is it?
This was lovely, Sage!
Thank you, Chryselle!