The river vast
yet the water scant
and the rocks arrayed
so I ventured
until a gap
no turning back
I leapt and found an isle
 with twisted trees
 and shallow shoals
 and a backward-flowing stream
Then the shore
 but just before
 the emerald river gleamed
So deep and strong
 I followed along
 over slanted boulders
 past sourceless pond
 till a creek drove me inland
 only to find
 I had been ashore the whole time:
 my abandon, my salvation

Each day she comes for makeup,
 her beauty like a river,
  different from the day before.
I make as to enhance it,
 but only find it ravishing.
I'm so ashamed. I fear
 one day they will call me out.
Each day I tremble before a beauty
 I cannot touch.

For something to be just right,
 it has to start out just wrong
 or just a shame it doesn’t just exist.
Then, you just have to do something about it.
Once you’ve done it
 — unless it’s just a shame to stop there —
 it’s just right.

The sun was high in the sky,
 the grass green.
Though I had had some petty
 rough patches in my life,
 I was still untried.
“Put me in, God.”
“Oh, my child, so stubborn,”
 He mercifully furrowed his brow,
 gazing at me lovingly.
“I am your child.
 It is my destiny
 to take upon the suffering
 of the world to save it.”
We looked over the infinite
 lake of suffering.
He took a bottomless cup
 and made as if to scoop it
 to its dregs.
With a deft slight of hand,
 He skimmed off a thimbleful;
 with the tip of a needle,
 He pricked the tiniest bead
 and dropped it into a fizzy drink.
In tenderhearted concern,
 He reluctantly gave it to me.
I joyfully drank it up.

 My tongue swole black-purple.
 My innards churned.
 I snowed flakes of flesh —
  my skin began to disintegrate.
 My blood ran and ran and ran
  till I could not think straight.
 The hairs on my head turned ashen;
  God counted each one
  as they fell off randomly.
 I knew helplessness.
 I knew hell.

As innocent as a lamb, I bleated,
 “Why have You forsaken me.”

Sometimes
the instant cure
takes time

Caught between land and sea
I spend my days on the beach
scooping out the sand-sludge
as the waves splay and flood
glimpsing the chest
yearning to unveil its treasure

After all that therapy,
I can finally stand
 to see myself.
My horns shine,
 regrown
 from when I filed them down.
My tail twitches,
 untucked
 from between my legs.
My hooves tap,
 unshod
 à la Shoeless Joe,
 how apropos.
My bed blazes
 made
 all ready
 for when I lie down in it.

I have spent my whole life developing a theory justifying living untheoretically.

A favorite item can’t be replaced.

The cup I was —
I liked to drink out of —
is broken now.

Was it my fault?
Was it my faults? —
the fault lines that make it
 so easy to break?

No!
In defiance...
No!
In love... with, of, for myself
In the fire,
I bleed gold
and heal.
Resplendent! 

My faults
No!
My spangles
My Self

A supersaturated atmosphere
 of raw energy envelops us,
 creating a million potential tributaries.
Any lucky one elucidates its burning
 connection up to heaven,
 rightly, quaintly, evoking God.