Love is the story we tell when we’ve run out of ink.
-
no ram in a bush appeared
He blessed me with it. gave it. called me up a hill with it
an-
–kill it… the very thingI raised my ax
for four months
but…tonight I slay the one that I love…
-
Three Months After You Broke Up With Me.
You want to meet
I choose the time
we speak for 6
hours 3 we are analysts
3 we are in love
nightfall enters you in
to the hospital because
your aunt abuses the emergency care facilities
or maybe because that wound gets worse
and what we suspect as surface
—-is getting into your blood
I pray believing He
take it away, He does not
seal up the wounds today
but instead I, myself am coming to you
that my finest suit might sit beside you
I stop on the way for flowers
but realize inside
peddles seem petty to token my intent
but your mother sends roses
and for whatever reason after
in the elevator we kiss
at the door and in the car
we kiss you leave
a rose on my dashboard.The sun licked up what little life it had left
and, as your texting made more clear,
those nights were the rose
both dead and dying
before they got to me. -
mindless of the end I forget the demand of today
I put myself between
wrath and mercy, pleading to be
swallow up in each.
I pray to Whom
all fiery dwells and all mercy
pours still; as if from His veins
out His open flesh marred
by ill intending men who
praying for justice, condemn their names…But who could know it when the end punctures the thin skin yoke of sky
and the sun like blood weeps like a Man in gardens pleading for who may bare His cup…they are fools
and I am like them with intent
to be saved and leave unsaved
the fools with intent to be free
and stay in chains
simultaneously. -
you can get up
sit up in bed at night
you don’t have to lay your head
no one said you were okay;
no one finished the Work.
Don’t blame yourself completely
don’t blame them
don’t omit blame completely
don’t omit them
but whatever you do
don’t let it steal
don’t let it
steal it (all) away:all: the golden light of His love which finds our heart when we cannot find it ourselves
all: the memories of long hugs on door steps
recreational painting in the park by her house
Christmas in the bed of a truck greeting January with fireworks from a driveway sofa
seeing her play
seeing her paint
seeing her hold herself up higher than life ever wanted to let her; yet there she stands.
seeing yourself
through her eyes
all: the reasons you’re more than enough
all: the reasons she loved you -
In poetic language I hear us often speak
banter upon banter of what we could not
convey with little human wordsso stanzas pass with very little said.
We let little words spray the page
…little words to trace the wayto my saying she is diamonds
each a hundred thousand cut
casing her incandescentsoul. To see her, my word, is to see her
turning perfect light
into multicolor skies. I…I want this light
I want these skies
for the rest of my life.Lo, who is speaking with words again?
I am but pointing at, unbelievable, divine things
recalling how words betray me likewhen I said she shines bright
but meant just to be painting ebullient rainbows
that fill up canvas nights with technicolored auroras; pouring out of her self…when I said she was beautiful
but meant just
look at her. -
On a string,
the very string, which us together bound
holds me now
irritating flesh;
my feet up off the ground.this is the catch: that love is a rope
and away from hands
it moves up the metaphysical
up to the throat; ..no one now
wants to be up on a string..
so once this rash wears
I’ll forget what it was.. it
was.. was… godwhatwasthatthing… -
you cannot reso…
you cannot resolve. as I have resolved. I cannot bare another claim against me. my bones will be weeds
when my body tells the earth “I
have come back…”it is liken to the day I envisioned her face
looking back deeply at me;
us both stretched on some hospital beds and we will know then that we tried
to ready our bodies for Unnatural light..
she will know then that she has tried, and I will say “for sure you have tried…”
and in her last breath she will breathe out that she always intended to
have come back…I swear our bodies have been undone from the same tie
the same twist of skin all bodies are molded in
the Architect’s bin of bones and minds and souls
our two were one but as He spread out the meekest shell of a modest man
the Spirit thought to split the one up even less
now the two bodies wear two separate souls… wondering when each will be modest enough a one
to find themselves a way to share what little is left of oneself… lo, the Lord has done this thing; not that we should find new bodies to wear when we love…
but to be.. and to let un-molded bodies re-meet …
nathanael.ink 