Seattle, WA
Poet, blogger, lawyer, educator, sista, sister, aunt, daughter, mentor, friend, dog owner, lover of music and all things gluten free... Writing about all of this and more.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Funny how it all comes together...

I wrote this poem a good while back but as I delve more deeply into the writing process (no ugly facebook profile, that's my vain motivation!) it is requiring me to re-explore my past. The poem is, quite obviously, about having a broken heart. Interestingly I think it works as a good precursor poem to the new one I'm working on, Lumps and Scars. So I just tacked that one on to the end to see how it flows--what do you think? I think it's very interesting how things come together... Here it is (for now, untitled):

You didn't know how to love me so I had to do it myself
Had to grow bigger arms that could hold me, fight for me
Had to brew my own tea to sip when weary
Sing my own comfort songs and run my own bath water and craft my own pep talks

Don't mistake my independence, my strength, for inaccessibility or coldness
I welcome a tea-partner
someone with whom I can stand back to back, fighting,
chest to chest, holding,
or hand in hand, singing

But you didn't know how to be that person so I had to be it myself
Had to write our names in the sand and watch the tide wash them, wash us away
Smell the salt air, let it stick to my lungs
penetrate my wounded heart like rubbing alcohol
Embrace the pain, knowing it was only the beginning

I'm embracing the pain because I know it's the beginning
I know it comes right before beauty, like birth
I'm letting the hurt work in me to create newness and life and joy
I'm allowing myself to feel it, letting the salt sink into my wounded heart

A scab is a shelter for my healing heart, ugly only to keep the thieves out
black-blooded armor that will only peel back and pour sweet oxygen onto fresh flesh when it is strong enough

I pray patience and gentle handling of this miraculous healing work
No rush, because deep scars yield bitterness and I only need quiet, loving reminders to be kind to myself
I only need scars that tell stories I can tell without my voice cracking or tears spilling out...

And I've got them, lumps and I've got scars
and I've cried tears
and counted stars
and wished upon them
Seen them shooting across the sky while leaning against my love's chest
and I've plucked flower petals with bated breath
with faith to move mountains, and hope that their outcome would lead to love

I've got scars and I've got lumps
and I've run races
skipped and jumped
suppressing grunts and gasps and grumbles
Holding it all together, watching my faith crumble into smaller-than-mustard seed remnants of innocence
but balancing it all in my hands, cupping it closely like water

I'm Hope's daughter
and She reminds me that
these lumps and scars are warrior-markings
they make me beautiful
they are physical proof of my dutiful, diligent nature
that, when this part of me sleeps i can easily wake her
with my cry for freedom
my freedom song

I've come a long way, running through brick walls and scaling fences
pushing through brush, crawling through trenches
conditioning my muscles with this resistance
crying freedom in every instance where air fills my lungs

I've clung to this warrior identity
sustaining lumps and scars and cuts and bruises
holding mustard seeds and water in my hands
Because I know the Plan and I'm running after it
With all my strength

1 comment:

  1. Hmmm. . .it sure is funny how things come together. I like it. I think it flows well.

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