battered woman,
defenses wild,
the fragile girl, the
wounded child,
let all your fears
be reconciled,
i will be safe for you.


in dead of night or
heat of day,
when hope and heart
were led astray,
when friend and faith have
looked away,
i will be safe for you.


when words fall short and
tears run dry,
when silence is
your only fight,
when darkness now
drowns out the light,
i will be safe for you.


take comfort in
the candle warm,
take solace in the
scars well-worn,
take courage, you
are not alone,
i will be safe for you.

i know what it’s like to
carry an unexpected child and to
pray for redemption’s sacred song.

i know what it’s like to
be given an impossible life and to
pray for the courage to be strong.

i know what it’s like to
sleep under the midnight sky and to
pray for shelter from the storm.

i know what it’s like to
wander through the desert night and to
pray for a light to lead you home.

this time of year, we
all draw near to
celebrate the atonement child,
but in our pursuits, have we
lost simple truths of
heaven and earth reconciled?

for he isn’t in the manger and
he isn’t on the cross,
he is eating with the stranger and
he’s walking with the lost.

he’s sitting with the broken and
he’s bandaging their wounds,
he’s unraveling the tangled heart,
he’s guarding the abused.
​
this time of year, may
our holiday cheer reach more than
just family and friends,
let there be light in the dark, and
peace in our hearts, and
compassion for every man.

my soul flows like the waters of
this stream, a story under every
stone, every pebble;
energy in every current, some
fast and some slow (but
all is me), sometimes
shallow and sometimes deep,
meandering, moving and
ever-changing, but
the water always
find a way to where
it is supposed to be.

earthy smells rise from
the riverbank and fish dart left and
right in whimsical play, safe within
their crystal and sunlit habitat;
my toes run across
a floor of river rocks, some
smooth and round, others
broken and sharp (but all
are mine), sometimes the
waters rise and sometimes the
meadow grasses thirst for rain, but
the mountain supplies her endless well
from deep within.
​
bubbling water cascades over and
around, creating the sounds of
comfort, the sounds of home;
this stream runs through
my soul, and today i am
walking the perimeter.

parenting is above my pay grade and
mother is a crown too carelessly bestowed.
most days i am
too scattered and too selfish
too depressed and too distracted
too bruised and too broken
to have anything
to give.

too lost and too lethargic
too frenetic and too afraid
who decided that this
(that i)
was a good plan
anyway?

my best addition seeks
the hopeful sum of
doing by them better than
by me was done
but how do you give
what you still do not have?
​
just the sins of the beggar and
the scapegoat calf.
something for nothing in
this sacred exchange where
the best of intentions must
kindle the flame of
the passionate has-been, this
failure to thrive
let something from the nothing of
these ashes rise.

what if they deserve better than me
what if their loss is because of me
who decided that i was ready for
this responsibility?
what do i tell the thirsty child and
tomorrow’s seed of chance when
the truth is convoluted and
the water is polluted because of
mother’s filthy hands.

this parenting is above
my pay grade and
this mothering crown sits
mistakenly crooked on my
downcast head.
from where shall redemption come?

i have more questions than
answers, but surely the sovereign hand
has a sovereign plan for
we, his orphan children.

fall is coming.

i smell her in the soil and
i catch her song in the rustling of
the morning leaves.

she is such a brave mother-fucker as
she releases the leaves that have expired and
asks no questions of what she
did wrong or why she
wasn’t enough to
keep them
alive.
​
as greens turn to crimson and
goldenrod, perhaps my heart will
turn from fire to embers and maybe
i will learn from sister autumn to
let go of you.

you said that
i am in love with you, that
you can see it in my eyes, but
i don’t even know anymore.
maybe it was the smell of
that balminess you
rub into your beard or
maybe it was the
serendipity of knowing
you were near or maybe
it was just the alcohol that
quiets all my fears and
convinces me that
dark can be light and
i can trust the night and
maybe that’s what you
saw in my eyes.
i have said that
i love the way our
brokenness dances together, but
your brokenness treats me
like shit, and
my brokenness lets you, so
perhaps the familiarity of
pain and commiseration is
actually the antithesis of
healing, the opposite of
home.
you said that
i am beautiful, that
you can see it across my life, but
do you love me beneath
my skin?
you are ambiguous and
hesitant and the words that
mean the most are mumbled under
cowardly breaths with
eyes averted.
there are many things that
i feel for you, but
the question is truly
what do you feel for me?
i was told that men show
their intentions and their heart with
their behavior and not
their words, and when
i view the youandme through
that lens, how
you feel (or who
you are) is quite clear
because you know how to
unshutter the windows of
my soul, but the truth doesn’t
stutter when you turn and
let go, you
always let go of
me.
you said that
i only love you when
you are walking away, but
how will you ever know if
you don’t ever stay?
maybe the truest question is
why do i keep showing up?
you are the antidote to
my ancient sadness (though
quick-acting, but
not long-lasting) and
your accolades drip
like honey off your tongue
onto my soul, you are like
heroin in my blood that
lifts me above
the tangled briars of
childhood and beyond the
wreckage of failed
fathers and husbands; i know
you are no savior and
no god, but god damnit
i love taking hits off of
your moonlit skin, despite the
emotional hangover that
awaits me when i wake up in
the forever of
lonely tomorrows.
so maybe it’s not love, and
maybe the magic between us is
better called addiction and
maybe the problem
(after all) is
me.
fuck.

i lied to you (and
maybe i lied to myself) when
i said that
those were the last words
i would ever write for you.
perhaps i didn’t think you
would be back or
perhaps i didn’t think i would
take you back, but
either way you have
come and gone again and
all tear-stained promises and
angry ultimatums aside
these words must spill from
this dilapidated soul so
the orphan-pilgrim can be free.
i am trying in so many ways to
be enough for you
can’t you see how much
i am trying?
can’t you breathe over me as
i am dying?
the poisoned air of this
love unrequited
the unpoised fare of this
woman plighted
when all i ever wanted was
you, my love,
all i ever wanted was you.
yet i am always
abbreviated
punctuated
depreciated and
hesitated
deeply bracing for you to
let go and let go
because that is what you do
my love
make a show of
my soul
it’s what they always do
i know that this is
not me this time
not my fault
not my deficit of enough and
not my superfluous love
it is you (my love)
your magic and brilliance and
strength and courage and
depth and complexity and
breadth and simplicity
all wrapped up in
a fifteen year-old boy that
is trapped in the brawny
muscle and bone and body of
a man who misses his father
where did you leave and
why did you go?
was i not good enough?
i just need to know
worth the time
worth the trouble
worth the work
worth the words
worth the truth
worth the peace
worth the pieces of you
why?
you call into the dark in
the midnight hours, and
so i ask the same of your
withholden powers
why?
how can i be so
torn apart?
loving you so
honestly and
holding my heart
together, waiting for
the bottom to fall out
always waiting for
the bottom to fall out
because you will let go of me
(my love) you always let go
why?
​

"eli, eli, lema sabachthani?"
​
i'm having trouble finding
words today; instead of
happiness, rest or peace, i am
disheartened, discouraged, disillusioned
and beneath all that restlessness.... i am angry.

it is father's day, and so
we send cards and
grill steaks to
celebrate our
father figures, but
what does that mean...
connectedness,
relationship,
belonging?
morality and
courage and
heroism?
stability,
strength,
safety?
i know no such
connection and i have
no such thread of identity; furthermore
my attempts to write
a better story have
failed miserably, and
i listen to the same goddamn
skip in the broken record
(over and over and over) as i
watch my children coming up.

i write these words for
the father-failures that have
filled not my soul with flowers, but
my bottle with tears.
the child in me is
angry at the father who
drove away under false pretenses and
didn't return;
the adolescent in me is
angry for the new family that was
(and is) worthy of
his time and
his affection and
his presence;
the naive wife in me still
holds him responsible for
the broken love that
she believe(s/d) was all that
she deserved;
the mama in me watches
my children and wonders how he could just
(dis)miss those important moments and
all of the priceless nuances in between.

i am hurt and angry
with you and
with him and
with all of them that
have followed in
your sacred steps:
loving
and
leaving.

you have seen my need and then
walked away
you have seen my tears and
you didn't stay
i have reached for you, but you
always let go, and so
he let go and now
they always
(unapologetically)
let go...
and now the grown up girl
doesn't begin to know
why she is broken and
so full of your sins and
when to build bridges
instead of a fence;
where she begins and
wherever she ends and
how to know love and
how to just be friends;
why did you leave me with
no voice or defense
and now your silence is
the greatest offense.

why wasn't i worth staying and
when did you decide that
they were the chosen and
we were left outside?
where grace met providence
the girl realized that
the father faithful had died.
where are the keys that
release yesterday?  to
let the girl become the woman that
is no longer enslaved to
the mud and the blood of
the sins of a man?
how is the heart healed so
the orphaned child can
believe in a father that
wants to provide, to
protect and keep promises and
stand by her side, be
the values she seeks and
the mirror of her worth; as
the image of heaven and
the shelter of earth;
does it even exist, this
idea of love?
all that she knows is
she was never enough.

(is she ever enough?)

on this father's day
i do not know how to
commemorate the loss I feel for
the fathers fiction that
have come and gone;
there is no roast in the oven and
no quilt on the lawn; there will be
no superfluous text and
no disingenuous platitude of
paternal accolades.
i can only press into the sadness and
continue the orphan's lonely journey on
to the home she has yet to find; however
i take hope in the blank pages and
i color the margins with
my own prisms of
love and safety and courage; and
i shall leave a trail of breadcrumbs so that
when these little ones of my own
someday go in search of
their own father fantasies
they perhaps have an
easier path to walk
than i.

"eli, eli, lema sabachthani?"
father, why have you forsaken me?
​
maybe in eternity, i will then understand
the human condition and
the sovereign hand that
writes hope and writes healing
from the pages torn out
and sings melodies of love over
the requiem of doubt...
let the sun ever rise on my
dark, cloudy days and let
comfort arise from the
shadowy grace of
the humanness of sadness and
the kindness of the lathe that
pushes me on toward
the truer father faith.

i have dreamed of
you taking me back;
you said i was
your wildflower in the desert
your light in the dark
your hope in the sadness
but
you always ran for the desert
danced in the darkness
swam in your sadness until
you drowned.

i have plead that you would
take me back
hold me tight
love me always
but
you have led me on
read my song
done me wrong.

you said that I had
stars in my eyes when
i looked at you
grace in my arms when
i took to you
faith in my heart when
i forsook the truth
but

i didn't know that you had
eyes for her when
you looked at me
memories of her when
you took to me
love for her when
you said that
you loved
me.

so now I am taking me back;
the smell of my skin and
the spark in my eyes,
the light of my soul and
the tireless tries to
reach you, to
heal you, to
love you so well, to
teach you the
hope that would
lessen your hell.

i'm taking my flowers and
taking my seeds
i'm taking the lockets and
taking the keys
i'm taking the kindness and
taking the peace
i'm taking back all of
the pieces of me.

it's amazing how
pain turned love into
anger in the time that
two tears fell from
these blue eyes
(and just like that
she was gone).

how dare you let
me love you for
so long while you
masqueraded me as her
i hate you for
disrespecting me and
taking advantage of my
naive and stupid affection
for you.

who the fuck do you think you are?
​
today is the day that
i take me back;
these are the last words
i will ever
write for
you.

ten saturdays left until
i drive the firstborn to
a faraway school in
a faraway city.
ten saturdays left of
early morning coffee and
late night laughter; of
outdoor adventures and
inside jokes.
she was born on
a sunday, and we have since had
nine hundred and fifty-eight weeks of
learning and loving and leaving, and
now there are but
ten saturdays left.