They say I looked back out of curiosity.
But I could have had other reasons.
I looked back mourning my silver bowl.
Carelessly, while tying my sandal strap.
So I wouldn't have to keep staring at the righteous nape
of my husband Lot's neck.
From the sudden conviction that if I dropped dead
he wouldn't so much as hesitate.
From the disobedience of the meek.
Checking for pursuers.
I was hoping to be happy by seventeen.
School was a sharp check mark in the roll book,
An obnoxious tuba playing at noon because our team
Was going to win at night. The teachers were
Too close to dying to understand. The hallways
Stank of poor grades and unwashed hair. Thus,
A friend and I sat watching the water on Saturday,
Neither of us talking much, just warming ourselves
By hurling large rocks at the dusty ground
And feeling awful because San Francisco was a postcard
I am looking past the moon.
I am reaching for the stars.
The journey is worth the effort,
The distance is not that far.
I go as far as my body takes me,
My imagination lifts me the rest of the way.
The stars are constant, faithful friends,
Guiding and showing the way.
I've heard it said,
"Stars are the forgot-me-nots of angels",
I walk in and you immediately mouth
“You look beautiful”
But you are the one that’s beautiful
My mustard yellow dress pales in comparison
To how you look in your bright yellow gown despite everything…
(Which reminds me of sunshine. You are my sunshine.
Your smile warms my heart and soothes the pain)
…but today they have you in green
When looking back I dimly see
The trails my feet have trod,
Some hand divine, it seems to me,
Has pulled the strings with God;
Some angel form has lifeward leaned
When hope for me was past;
Some love sublime has intervened
To save me at the last.
For look you! I was born a fool,
I'll change forthwith said a meditative me,
Be absent so laid the plan to foresee,
One, no longer in virtuals unending,
Troubled in empathy and following,
Praised for heroism but broken,
One who healed souls sunken.
I'll lie about the wounds woken,
Hide the scratches and them torn,
I'll be bold being tattered and taken,
Most confining and to the decencies,
Feebled feelings and enslaved alternates,
Oddly detached, from them degradations,
Of whimpered whines and conceived illusions.
The reliance on the diminished decisiveness,
The age past then that's best in stewardship,
Oddly detached from the practice in manship.
The dependence on them downed possessions,
I’ve done what I can
It’s out of my hands
It sucks that other people have hands
I mean, that’s why we love them
For their hands
We don’t want them to be puppets
At the mercy of ours
And in our deepest moments
For the one who would take on a god in his hearth, in his home,
Small, all alone.
Skinny and bare, bolder than you'd hope but not as bold as you might think.
What else to reach for if not higher,
What else to pray to if not sky fire?
The hand in its place has no chance to erase
The pain of the days long gone by.
The ankh round the neck is a drag, a behest,
A reminder that gods too shall die.
Hope that's a certainty.
Hope steadfast and sure.
Hope for eternity.
Hope that will endure.
Hope for the hope less.
Hope for the lost.
Hope that is ageless.
Hope from the cross.