little girl, get up.

I’m sorry: I forgot to remember
you’re loved.

Oh, you with your brash questions,
demands for honesty,
pleading for lies:
You, be still.
You’ll hear something
in the wind or in my voice.
Be still and I’ll say a word,
“Love,” or a variation on the theme.

Oh, you are tired and such a fighter,
your body and your words
twist and turn,
seeking in one motion to injure,
and to save yourself from injury.
Oh dear one: be still and you’ll see something
in the sky or in my eyes.
Be still and I’ll whisper
“Mercy,” or some other shade of it.

Oh, you are broke and bedraggled,
bereft of what you had,
gambled it on some broken melody
and lost. Oh you – be still,
so dear to us, be still.
You’ll feel something in the breeze
or on my fingers;
Be still and I’ll tell you
“Grace,” or something like it.

And will you hear me and my empty words?
(Words only someone else’s breath could breathe
properly; words that float on some crimson
air from another place; words that sound
bastardized from this impure mouth – oh,
I will place this coal to my lips,
and maybe these words will sound in unearthly accents,
inspired, divine – divine enough to convince a soul
it’s loved.)

Or will you keep wrestling, hearing only
your own ragged breath?

It’s autumn; that time I wrote of you,
you: harvest and reaping and plenty,
warm and sweatered,
mug of something steaming in hand,
something rising joyfully in the oven.
I, blanketed and beholding
what you’ve brought forth,
thank you for all this,
but what I need are your arms.
Bring your warmth, your coffee,
your calloused fingers curled around
the cup you sculpted,
knuckles turning pink from the heat.
Bring it here:
From a face nestled in your cashmere,
my nose will thaw and my eyes will close.
My mind will hum contentedly,
murmurings that aren’t fully strung out,
but seem to hint of safety.

“I love you” doesn’t count if it means “please change.”

Hey all -
Sorry there have been infrequent updates! When I sit down to write, only very personal things come out, so they can’t be published. I’m sorry about that! But I hope everyone’s doing well, and more than likely if you know me well you’re probably totally fine for reading some of the private things, so let me know if you want to.

love and more love
sarah

Sarah’s version of studying: Highlight notes. Flip through notes, admiring the highlighting. Make spreadsheet. Stare at spreadsheet, admiring the formatting.

Follow me; together we will
walk and discuss what manner of love
atones for a thousand indiscretions.

Youthfully and flushed she said
in a voice of bells: Forgive me for being
late; I am young and in love.

I looked at the way the roots of trees
held firmly, caressingly to earth and thought:
I know how that feels, to draw water from someone,
to hold that someone together with my fingers.

I want to burst into a silky scarlet flame of words,
curling and crackling like a matador’s cape.
My delight is full tonight; it runneth over
like the toro’s winevessel veins.

Forgive me for my faithlessness, for my quickness to despair. Whenever you bring light, I wish I’d prayed harder in the darkness. Hold tight, sweet one, and be my hope forever. Don’t let me forget your constancy, your changelessness, your faithfulness and love. Be with me always.

If I wind my words around you like arms,
like walls of strongholds or
security blankets,
will you,
sweet glory of harvests and
ripples on water,
stay?

Or go – venturesome brave explorer that you are.
And I will say: “The world is large,
and will make you glad,
and will terrify you,
and will enrich you beyond all my heart has to offer,
but dear one, the world spins quickly sometimes,
so when you’re dizzy,
I will hold you fast and settle you,
eyes fixed on yours, heart to heart -
I’ll let your rushing pulse feel mine
and slow, and slow, to match it;
till steadily you breathe
and sleep
and love. And when you wake
at dawn, at newborn dawn,
who spreads curious fingers over
the curves of land,
I will trace you with my eyes, my hands,
drink deeply of you, then
send you out again.”

Mikalos is riding his trike into Arie.
Mikalos is grinning with glee,
and speaking Greek to Arie,
and wondering why this girl doesn’t know Greek.
It’s so easy a five-year-old can speak it!

Ronny is floating on his back in blue ocean;
Christ is not taking off his hat;
Jackie is squealing and worried at the water;
Jane is sending photos to her husband back home.

And this feels like heaven, and it’s you, Theodoros,
your grace and love have met us here.
You are indeed doros theou, and

my face is sticky from fig ice cream and
my stomach bulges from the food you gave us when we
straggled into your backyard, funny American beggars.
Your family lounges on patio chairs with us smiling,
indulgent and enjoying the merciful day.

We are strangers and Theodoros is a gift of God,
a gift of God is Theodoros of the wide girth, of the wide smile.