Behind the Veil

Sometimes I know.  Sometimes I
catch a fleeting glimpse of
truth.  Sometimes I see from
another perspective.  You may
think it is the better view.  You
may be right.  There I see my
innocence.  There I see my
open heart and good will.  When
I look from behind my own
eyes, though, I am at the cave
door, looking out at the common
landscape of my life:  loss.  I have
grown used, so used, to this
panorama of existential ash.  Each
time the curtain is rent, each time
the heart breaks a little more, a
hurried stream of light flashes through
the torn sky, and for a moment I
believe.  If there is Someone
beyond the grey, if there is Purpose
behind the veil.  Then.

Wait with Me

Listen.  It is not that I want to
wallow in my loss.  So if you
could try to refrain from blame,
if you could forgo the relief.  If
you could just sit and wait, the
way Job's friends did, sitting at
his side as he wept, before
they started the blame and
advice, I mean.  Even Jesus
wanted his friends with him when
he entered the Further Still.
Even they tried to assuage his
pain with platitudes, and then,
they ran.  You will see me as
you will.  I do not blame you
nor ask you to think I am sane.
I have entered some dark place
and it is lonely here.  The open
door will only appear when I
am ready and I can not see it
yet.  Thou Friend who witnesses
my life, please forgive me for
taking so long to heal.  I am
birthing something new and
the labor is intense.

Chains

He will never ask and I will
never hear again.  It is his way;
he will wonder but he will
not venture out.  Other things
will capture his fancy; every
day will bring him happier
life.  Over time, pain may
fade and I will continue be-
coming whoever I am meant
to be.  I am imagining forward
in order to infuse my wounds
with hope.  A balm meant to
keep me upright instead of
on my knees, praying to let
go.  I shall no prisoner take but
love, I wrote, and having taken,
I am taken in return.  No keys
remain, and still, he will never
ask.

Frailty

It is the not asking that lingers.  I stand at the ready

with explanations and answers, my timid heart shyly

beating in my cupped hands.  There is the shadow of the

self that hesitates, accuses, turns to try again.  I want

you to be curious, to draw close, lean in, put your warm

hands under mine, lift my trembling fingers to gaze, 

tender, amazed, at the heart within my hands.  I want 

you to look up, forehead touching mine, see into my 

soul, finally give yourself up to love.  I conjure you
whole, alive, here.  The longing repeats and I keep
dreaming you into my life.

What Anne Brought and Left

Its strains, recognizable, identifiable.  I felt 

superb, erudite, an epiphany of knowing.  I had 

grown used to hearing it throughout autumn 

and into winter, piping out of my roommate's 

cumbersome behemoth of a tape player, which 

she had lugged along with her postage-stamp 

sized underwear all the way from Switzerland 

to our cozy dorm room sheltered by the Pine 

Grove.  But that night I stood, home for break, 

doing laundry in the basement, radio on, my 

parents somewhere upstairs, naive about their 

daughter's impending genius, and there was the 

music, lovely, sad, hopeful, tragic, something 

dark I had come to know over myriad games 

of backgammon, while drinking Russian Caravan 

tea that had steeped in a pale yellow teapot.  

Folding clothes, I looked up, amazed, conscious, 

and called out to no one in particular, "Mozart's Requiem."