This week was long, and in two hours I'm hosting 30 strangers in my house so we can call Obama supporters in Michigan and remind them to vote. I've over-committed myself and, therefore, become a B student at everything I do. Bear with me, faithful readers, and I'll be your dependable reverend again soon.
In the meantime, here is something I wrote for Galveston when my heart was broken.
I wrote it as a prayer.
Galveston, I
how the history book says, even a simple request or complaint among tribal members was preceded by the shedding of mutual tears
how you sit in a thick sea of green carpet and sip tea while you interview the old man
how his arthritic hands quiet while his voice bobs through time
In the meantime, here is something I wrote for Galveston when my heart was broken.
I wrote it as a prayer.
Galveston, I
how the history book says, even a simple request or complaint among tribal members was preceded by the shedding of mutual tears
how you sit in a thick sea of green carpet and sip tea while you interview the old man
how he asks you the same question
how you never give the real answer: He is his own island
how the history book says, La Salle's shipwrecked men referred to this tribe contemptuously as "the weepers"
how you have imagined your grief into a barrier island separate from your vast continent of self
how your grief shows up at the edges in makeshift boats, its many faces sun-blotched, starving, suffused with sorrow
how you try not to drag sand from your shoes and hair into the house
how the history book says, La Salle's shipwrecked men referred to this tribe contemptuously as "the weepers"
how you have imagined your grief into a barrier island separate from your vast continent of self
how your grief shows up at the edges in makeshift boats, its many faces sun-blotched, starving, suffused with sorrow
how you play the evil immigration officer, the stickler for the rules
how you try not to drag sand from your shoes and hair into the house
how the latest thin letter on the coffee table will contain new words to say the same old thing you've heard too much: don't want you
how the history book says, but these crying fits were not a sign of weakness
how when you open each letter you feel your body buoy itself so as not to dissolve into anything
how when you open each letter you feel your body buoy itself so as not to dissolve into anything
how you never allow yourself to dissolve into anything anymore
how everyone around you is weeping so you cannot be porous
how you suspect the hull of your house, if it hears too much weeping, will begin to weep itself
how you check the faucets at night for leaks
how you suspect the hull of your house, if it hears too much weeping, will begin to weep itself
how you check the faucets at night for leaks
how you swipe the windows for condensation
how you wake in the middle of the night to find your hand against the dry wall as if to hold it up or as if your palm presses into the chest of a lover to say, again, There you are and Here I am
how you wake in the middle of the night to find your hand against the dry wall as if to hold it up or as if your palm presses into the chest of a lover to say, again, There you are and Here I am
how those words sound less true than You are there and I am here
how the history book says, without speaking a word, both wept bitterly for half an hour
how I-45, stitched on each side by equal numbers of churches and strip clubs can become the gateway to your surfacing
how the first poet says I have a great admiration for ships and other people's handwriting
how the second poet says what I'm trying to say is the body can take a hell of a lot
how the first poet says compared to my heart's desire the sea is a drop
how the ghosts will float
how the second poet says what I'm trying to say is the body can take a hell of a lot
how the first poet says compared to my heart's desire the sea is a drop
how the ghosts will float
how the history books rarely prepare us
how your chest's skin reddens, flakes, darkens into a shadow of fingers
how the history book says entire subdivisions have slid beneath the water and been abandoned
how the evening sun is a storm
how your letter is signed, salt-sealed, shipwrecked
how you rock on the front porch swing alone and listen to its back splash against the house
how, how, how
The shore can soothe your soul. Mama
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