p u l l e d apart,
pride is a funny thing
when you’re in the back of a car, side by side, no room for your feet, backpack in your lap and it’s suddenly loud and hot and you can’t breathe, heart racing, and tears start streaming down your cheeks because you have to get out and you have to get out n o w
(and everyone just thinks you’re a little dramatic,
attacked by p a n i c)
and when every single morning you’re in tears and you don’t know why only that you have n o t h i n g l e f t and you throw yourself at God’s feet every five minutes because you can’t do it anymore,
this month i had nothing left: physically, spiritually, or emotionally
but things look different when you’re on your knees
than from six feet under
i’ve been on my knees all month – depending on God every five minutes. i still don’t know what exactly was wrong or why i felt so badly, but i know that i always want to be independent, hate looking weak, never want to cry in front of anyone, and hate asking for help – and this month God stripped me of all of these things.
& in that way he stripped me of my pride,
and He’s still working
and it’s embarrassing and hard and scary,
only when you’re undergoing open heart surgery
first you have to crack the sternum
and He’s been chipping away
at the bone.
(they say that’s the worst part, right?).
//but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. they will
soar on wings like eagles, they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint
– isaiah 40:31
– – – – – – –
You lead us to the valley of the shadow of d e a t h
when we were just one step away from making it
(will You walk with me?)
buried beneath the rolling hills
streaks of sweeping g r e e n brushed
over dirt roads winding & less traveled
S T R A N D E D ,
lost somewhere in the rising mists
the air c r i s p & c l e a n
but we can’t breathe from
six
feet
underground
//doesn’t he leave the ninety nine
in the open country and go after
the lost sheep until he finds it?
-luke 15: 4
red e a r t h smeared down the hillside
flaking iron rust
s t a i n e d
scrape it up, dirt beneath fingernails
s p r e a d like war paint,
(this is how i fight my battles),
they say there’s a time to be held
t o g e t h e r,
for what are (wo)men but empty husks
and curved slivers of ribbed cages?
breathe into me,
the way the valleys s p l i t
maybe the world exists between
the breadth of every fissure,
and there’s a time to be pulled
a p a r t
scream out into the void
emptied in the echo
until there’s nothing l e f t and
tears spill over cheekbones
snow running off the side of a mountain,
it’s an o v e r f l o w ,
(let it be the only sound)
pockets full of stones, we climb
because we can’t settle for the hills
we are called for the mountains
but we don’t need to be at the top
to answer
send me
s e n d m e
SEND ME
//we share the same sky
staring out between the bars of this gilded cage
tracing arches of hollowed & hallowed b o n e s
beneath feathered wings filled with a i r and
lifting into the swells
with the strength of trabeculae struts
and we know that we would s N a P (!)
our femurs in half just to drink the hematopoetic
medulla ossium rubra
soft, spongy, sticky marrow
if only we too could s o a r
wings spread with the arc
of intention
prayers on our lips
like breath in our lungs
laid flat in s u r r e n d e r
because i can’t do this
alone
(but if You’re not done working
i’m not done waiting)
standing on the edge staring out
when we were six feet under
but now we’re on our k n e e s
we will sing,
quiet and low key:
the b flat at the end
of a piano
falling on purple mountain
m a j e s t y hidden in the clouds,
//You’re the God of greatness
even in a manger
and i will fear no evil
(You walk with me).