It is cruel and embarrassing to have an asteroid strike my beauty; my ecosystems are invaded and disrupted with the havoc and the gash. When my volcanoes erupt, my people chastise my self-inflicted violence. They narrow their eyes at my fickle nature; they question my bountifulness. In fear, some look to the moon and the craters and despair, but I am earth; I am shrouded in miracle: patient, folding old skin within to be rekindled into new, canvasing barren landscapes with humble grass, and flowers, soon.
I fancy myself a fine craftsman with fortitude enough for a mansion, someone who adorns, with gold filigree, the polished, stained pine and keeps each room appointed, waiting for the assessor’s gaze. Had I known it was my home I was crafting, I would have squatted upon a pond and been someone who has enough fire and just enough wood to live.
Little boy, you just have a patch to hide your nakedness. Patch after patch — too much needlework — until you are emperor. All patched up, no place to go.
Failed essays, each belying my immaturity… What am I saying? This is my life I lament: real life… lives. Their blood stains my hands. Why did I try to write with them. I lament spilling ink, but the sin is simpler: taking people’s lids off, handling their bottles.
When I can afford no clothes these I have are sanctified; the threadbare are forgiven and loved. That they exist is the miracle. That I have any at all is God’s blessing. When I can afford what is my wont, a new criteria rules the wardrobe. Holy is rendered crumby and the faith that held the threads together is unraveled; a new regime overlooks the angles guarding tramps.
I didn’t realize the candle to refrain from hiding was my own, not some super–candle I would one day acquire or already had that was better than my real one. I didn’t realize the money to refrain from burying was my pocket change: all that I had in the world. I didn’t realize the virgins weren’t particularly chaste, but just so young they might not trust their own wicks.
I kiss the light, bathed in love. I am exhausted and defeated, unable to deny my tragedies were my own concoction; it was me who held my nose as I imbibed its bitterness. Faith stands, still unblemished, present to life, vulnerable to wholesomeness, permissive of its good nature. She smiles as I let go of fear to hold the hand that was always there.
I’d go out into the world and find that marrow I feel in my bones must needs be found; a pause before the gate to check should there be anything upon these grounds or, maybe, give me time as I traipse amid the ants between the blades of grass here. I’m not going anywhere.
Gazing at iridescent coals we remember at leisure the wet logs we used then jettisoned, the dry ones we trucked too many of, the rolled magazines the fire choked on, the lighter fluid the flames absorbed as quick as we poured, the ineffectual pop of the lighter sacrificed to the pile. When we placed leaf next to leaf, stick over leaves, stick next to stick, log over sticks, log next to log, tending over logs, we had s’mores for a time, tending fire.
Little boy: patience, or, at least let yourself be. You don’t see the angels loving you, the humble intricacies of your snowflake, the mountain you pirouette from. I admonish you: love yourself, still, only if it be thine will, lest you deprive the least of your lovers of a tittle of your jot. Nurture yourself, breathe, grow, should it suit you. The bright Devil burns, still not yet God.