margaret

you are not here and you are not there
you are ethereal, strung up between stars
are you stuck painfully? or comfortably settled?
i do not know, i cannot reach you

i imagine you thriving in the elsewhere
i have to or i will die
it is too much to bear
thinking of you without me
as i am without you

daughter
daughter
daughter
can you hear the sobs rattling my bones
i am sorry darling

they are all that i have

the day i learn i was wrong about jesus

If it turns out I’m wrong, I’m fine with that.

If it turns out Jesus wasn’t real, I’m fine with that.

If it turns out Jesus didn’t die and come back three days later, I’m fine with that.

If it turns out Jesus wasn’t holy or divine but just a guy that tried really hard and also messed up sometimes, I’m fine with that.

If it turns out Jesus was only a prophet and also not the only one, I’m fine with that.

If it turns out Jesus didn’t turn water into wine and miracles are what happens when want collides with coincidence, I’m fine with that.

If it turns out Friedrich Nietzsche knew what he was talking about, I’m fine with that. I won’t even be surprised – I’m a nihilist at least one or two days a week.

If it turns out Siddhartha Gautama had it figured out, I’m fine with that. I’m a buddhist, too.

If it turns out J.K. Rowling was right then honestly I’ll be a little peeved because it’s probably way too late for my owl to come.

But what if it turns out They were right? If it turns out the Bible is literal and historically accurate, if it turns out God destroyed creation because free will was a mistake and also asked someone to murder their own child just to prove a point, that God would send me to hell for having sex with a man outside of marriage or having sex with a woman ever, that I wasn’t supposed to have any spiritual authority over boys aged 12 and up or get any tattoos or eat shellfish..

If it turns out that I was wrong but I tried really hard and also messed up sometimes, I’m fine with that. If it turns out that all I did was take something ugly and tried to make something beautiful? That I broke apart their picket lines to build shelter, that I set fire to their books to bake bread, that I melted down their weapons to make art?

Yeah, I’m fine with that.

liminal

i was made
for the
spaces
in

between

there is something
in my marrow
an energy that hums
and rattles
my

bones

my bird song is
one
of

tension

the long stretch
from catalyst to
resolution as it
hangs
in

the air

it is messy
and it is dark
but i am not alone
and this is where i have found peace

you see, it takes the sun eight minutes
and thirty seconds
to reach the earth and
it is within this lightspeed that we
find each other
or
sometimes

crash

bruised and battered we find
desperate relief in the clinging
we are bleeding but still
very
much

alive

landmarks

I wanted to be a rose
Velvet petals and teasing thorns
Delicate and easy to hold

I am willow tree breasts
And thighs like galaxies
A sand dune belly
Siren call hips
And sea storm eyes

I am soft in all of the right
And wrong places
Nobody thought
To give my body a map

I wanted to be a rose
But I am devasting
And cannot be wrapped in cellophane

breakfast

Depression is a thief. Cunning and wretchedly beautiful. She smiles sweetly at you, refilling your tea and telling you how the color of your dress brings out your eyes. Depression is a thief but first she is a friend. “Darling,” she says, “you seem so tired. Would you care to set your joys down for awhile?”

“No, no. Not my joys. It is not my joys that weigh me down but my burdens.”

“Ah, that’s alright, dear,” she pats your hand, “Just thought I’d ask.”

She changes the subject cheerfully but when your back is turned she places a stone in your bag. Not too large, but enough to make the dull ache in your shoulders a little louder, a little sharper at the end of the day.

It goes on in this way for some time. She asks the same question and you continue to shake your head. At times you feel perturbed with her insistence, but you know she is just concerned for your well-being.

The bag grows heavier still.

One morning she notices your strain appears great. She pulls you in a warm, tight embrace and tells you softly, “Tomorrow I will come to your house. There is no need for you to make your way here when you are so, so very tired.”

She is kind. Considerate. Thoughtful.

“Good morning darling, you seem so tired. Would you care to set down your joys for awhile?”

“No, no. Not my joys but my burdens.”

“Good morning darling, you seem so tired. Would you care to set down your joys for awhile?”

“No, no. Not my joys but my burdens.”

“Good morning darling, you seem so tired. Would you care to set down your joys for awhile?”

“No, no. I keep telling you – not my joys but my burdens.”

“Perhaps, my dear, they are one in the same? Something to think about. I’ll leave you be now. Get some rest.”

The next morning you wake to find her by your bedside. Sunlight streams through the curtains and glows golden across her cheekbones. “Good morning, darling. It is time now. You know this, don’t you?”

You have barely the energy to nod. You know now. Your joys are burdens, too. And you are so, so very tired. What else can you do but let her gather them up from your limp hands, fatigued from gripping with white knuckles for far too long.

“There now. I’ll hold on to these for you, just for a little awhile.” She tucks them into her bag and stands to leave. Before walking out the door she brushes the unruly, unwashed hair from your face and gently kisses your forehead. “Get some rest,” she whispers and is gone.

How lucky you are, to have such friends.