If I were
I would melt
into your love
of the past
It wasn’t until her fingers ached with the holding
that she stumbled upon what her heart most craved.
Recasting flotsam into jetsam proved complex –
each snippet and stub, accumulation of a misspent life,
ingrown toenails like colonized barnacles on a heartless hull.
Which to discard?
Where to lay it down?
Her broken treasures had put down diseased roots,
fusing flesh to failure, marrying captain to ship.
Scraping at the splinters, mutiny of the highest order,
was pain more exquisite than the requisite lashes.
But unimaginable riches winked on the sand
and sang Siren notes pure and sweet,
daring surrender, demanding an answer.
Her cries of agony crashed like breakers
as her keel cracked wide;
sea air seared skin freshly exposed to the elements
while baubles trickled to the sand,
frothing like the surf.
Layer upon layer,
all, all became Crusoe to her perfect storm,
her tears lost at sea
with the pounding of her chest
as freedom stirred chains.
she knelt on bloodied knees
before the pearl of great price
with all she had left –
Brittle hands emptied out,
crisp-crackled in the dying places,
freeze-dried from the endlessness of
to-do lists, the heaped up inadequacies of fertilizing
failures, fold in prayer, the cry of a surrender which
knows its own hollowness at last. And where
empty meets Full, the
green can begin, grassroots growth.
Paint my skin in springtime shades,
warm the tones of cold judgement.
Let Light wash over my frozen opinions
and brush aside arrogance and pride,
covering that powerful streak of stubborn selfishness
with magnificent magenta mercy,
graceful gouache glory.
Frame my life’s context
against the wall of Your gallery,
anoint my head with oils and pastels,
running over into lithographed lap.
For I am but a copy
until Your fingers draw out the Original;
I am but a replica
until Your signature calls me Salvaged.