Joy is my middle name. Not happy. Not flippant. Not sparkling rays over perpetual blooms and grass that tastes like candy. Joy. Desperate and scrappy. Joy is not my partner’s smile. It’s the kindness in his crinkles which cover two decades of wounding and repairing. Joy is not my dog’s scruff. It’s the affection of a pure-hearted creature who doesn’t know, like I do, that her longest life is still so short. Joy is not the positive pregnancy test, it’s the promise of life when loss permeates even the noblest hopes I stick high up in the sky where the sun always shines. Joy invites you to stand on shaky…
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Beam Hallelujah
The beams reach high—to you As if you are not here, in the pew But you don’t mind it You come how we’re able Hallelujah The cross up there reminds me of the ones you put all over Torture as a decoration, hallelujah Like the one you pained for me at that pottery shop When I got myself baptized And Grandma Betty thought it was a waste You were my sanctuary—are? Do I still get to say that? While I learn to stand on the legs you knit for me in your womb? Which sort of makes them yours, I guess And I like that thought, hallelujah And I hope…
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When You Find What Doesn’t Belong
There is a sense in me of what belongs and - maybe more sharply - what doesn't.
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Keeping Myself Out of Heaven
What if the only reason I don't experience Heaven is because I'm not looking for it?
