little girl, get up.

break open my ribcage and
stuff the world inside,
pack it gently and tuck away all the ends
so my chest expands to hold it
then fuse my bones back together
and stitch me up.

if i gather you up in my arms
and whisper in your ear:
i love you, i love you
will your heart be soothed,
your soul be healed?
if it’ll fix you i’ll
hold you forever,
whisper till time dies
and the world explodes into
firecrackery bombshells
of blinding light:
i love you, i love you

it was new year’s once and they
were some of the only singles in the room.
the ball was about to drop and so he
shuffled over to her, a little imbalanced
and she shrugged.

it was all silvergoldshimmery,
as new year’s eve should be
all starlit and boozehazy
as new year’s eve should be

her eyeshadow was creasing
and her lipstick was on her wineglass
but it doesn’t really matter when you’re a
twentysomethingbachelor on new year’s

they kissed a halfsecond later than the rest of the room
and he was surprised at how sweet she tasted
and she indulged him a little with
lips that held secrets in their corners

thanks for the kiss,
her eyes said,
but i’d better catch a taxi home

Another thing that distracts us is our passion for vindication. St. Augustine prayed, “O Lord, deliver me from this lust of always vindicating myself.” Such a need for constant vindication destroys our soul’s faith in God. Don’t say, “I must explain myself,” or, “I must get people to understand.” Our Lord never explained anything— He left the misunderstandings or misconceptions of others to correct themselves.

((from my utmost for his highest: the distraction of contempt))

when i think about
you i sleep on my bible
my heart is heavy

that guy contacted me today.
(the one you wanted to beat up)
and a little shiver ran in my
stomach and spine
and i wondered if i could
message you and you’d come
save the day for me if i was
scared

and maybe in the postscript of my message
i’d add: “could you please get the book back for me
that went from me to you to your little brother
to his friends across the sea and who knows where else?
because i’d like to read it again soon.”

i could always borrow it from someone else,
but the man who inspired my locked door at night
makes me wonder if i could keep myself safe
without you, the boy who danced with me in the kitchen
and pressed me against the car door when the stars were out

oh the way you used to smile at me makes my
stomach hurt, and that together with this
frightening apparition makes me want to
i don’t know
throw up or something
from the terror of being alone

someone fall in love with me
so i can call you when i get scared

stories remind me i’m human
they make me more myself:
i watch or read or listen and
am enthralled
God is there in the plotlines,
the twists and turns,
the rejoicings and the heartbreaks,
the bittersweet tragedies
blossoming into completion
every story is like our story:
starting tidy,
burning and curling into an absolute mess,
then resolving better than before,
even with moments that make you
cringe and hurt and want to gasp aloud

tell me a story
it’ll be a sky like heaven
rent with comets and
exploding with meteors
destructive, fierce, beautiful, old
because there are no new stories, really
just reawakenings

—-

(anyone know if “rent” is for sure the past tense of “rend”?)

because i accidentally caught a glimpse
of a woman in a mirror
and i think it’s me,
and i think i might be beautiful
and stretch i do and arch and curve
and it’s wonder to behold
it’s a wonder to behold

some songs make my heart clench and writhe
and tears spring up like needles in my eyes
and it’s a heavenly delirium, a blissful torture
to hear these rhaspodies floating out and around me
surrounding me in this blinding beauty
it’s like falling in love,
like holding your hand,
like finding your eyes on me, an infinite yes
and it makes the butterflies in my stomach
wake up and roll around like they haven’t since i was
fifteen and in love and on stage and the curtains were open
and heaven and earth were witness to my heart

come this edenic rain saving me,
washing me clean
and making me sob with the aching
of your voice in my ear

i fall as you fall over me

this is sweet and riddled with sugar
and tart and hurting and my arsenic-laced resurrection
taking me captive, setting me free

these boys have bright shining faces
with bits of men coming out of their eyes
they’re young
(but then, i’ve yet to meet a man
who’s not a child)

you should see their eyes.
they’d ignite you,
make you glad to be alive.
they’re the sons of God,
holding up the roofs with their
strongarms, strongwords,
they love fiercely and clumsily

i pray for iron to wind up their
legs, torso, arms
strengthening, fortifying them
to stand and never fall
i pray for them to lean on each other
sharpening each other, iron on iron
i pray that when they are face to face
with the fire of God, the iron will turn red hot
and bend and spark and become masterpieces

my blessing on them is iron and fire
i from my desk chair, from my ordinary life
call this down, seal it with wax,
and send it to them
may their hearts feel full this moment
like young lions who could stretch lissomely
and conquer the plains
weights in their chest like anchors,
holding them fast.
iron.