Sundays

It's one of those sentences thrown into the middle of a page, the kind no one remembers reading when they've finished the book. I feel a little sorry for it (and perhaps for myself, too), wrapping itself up in a strange mixture of muffled steps, a roomful of dancing kids, beignets heaped with sugar, and trees falling in a forest, debating whether or not their fall made a sound.

Tonight Joshua is singing about holes in his pockets just her size ("But I think everything is gonna be all right--yes, I hope everything is gonna be all right...."), and I lay out my mind an empty sheet of paper but all I can think is

if perfect love casts out fear,
then why
am I
so scared?

Gathering

Remember us?
We are you
then,
and you are us
now.

I'm safe here.
They're all gone.
In this frame, the history behind me
disappears.

Your shadow isn't big enough anymore.
You keep putting more of us
behind you.

When there's nothing left of you,
where will we go?

I like it here.
I feel free again.
Everything of me I want to keep
is here.

Take us with you.
We answer the questions.
We fit the holes in your skin
that life falls through.

I thought I could be whole
by taking me apart.

Are you ashamed of us?

Well then, come.

All of us?
Even the child in the corner, awake from a nightmare,
afraid to open her eyes?

Yes.

The woman behind the door, hoping no one sees?
The girl singing in silence, praying no one hears?
The one in the middle alone, with nothing to hold on to?

Yes.
And the daughter bleeding rage,
the murderess rampant with revenge,
the thief with empty hands.
The liar too, with the price she's paid, and the love she's won.

The lover forgotten,
the child with the story unbelieved,
the girl holding all her gifts untaken?

Yes, and even the harlot who's played her part
and gotten what she never wanted.

Come. Let's go together.

Welcome home.