nathanael.ink

whatever we want to be gets funneled through
shelves,
shoved into
bookcases for books,
hardware for wood,
lumber and wool.

whatever we want to be gets a laugh,
a cackle in the back,
a cough from the furthest pew,
a sleepy “z” from the child in their mother’s lap.

whatever we want to be
will have to be us,
and be what it will never be for anyone else.

you push uphill
and pull down the shelves.
you rip every stitch and wake up everyone.

write, for yourself,
the book and the shelf and the wool and the wood,
the comedy and cathedral and sleepy congregants.

write the way the mother loves the child,
and write the way you notice
nobody noticing you,
except
that one person, the only one we even matter to,

you.