Hands on the Bible
scared like a child
God holds you liable
for what you’ve done
In the moonlight, the path is a white river flowing down to the Lake. Quiet steps drift to one side then the other, picking my way down its treacherous footing, so much detritus floating downstream. Eventually bumping against the shore and pulling onto the wide flat stone.
Grief has made me numb. My brother died today. A direct result of my choices, my promises. The time in which I thought I would never again hear his crowing laughter or watch him moving through a crowd, graceful and elegant… Those hours had robbed me of my heartbeat.
I curl against the rock, feel the warmth soak into my bones, begin trying to parse out the things I need to say or do. The conversational fragments cutting through my mind like so many shards of broken glass. The rock is quiet, observant. It doesn’t judge as I stumble through my secrets and confessions and fears. My rock is well familiar with what I look like at my most disheveled.
Cool skin begins to warm, and my emotions with it. Now they flow forth. Rage and bitterness and blame. Guilt and Fear. Anger and Ambition. Oh yes. Ambition is always there. The rock doesn’t try to convince me of its folly, only passive reassurance that no matter what happens, it will be there. The one constant of these last few months.
White moon above. It matches the white roses on Sister Bowman’s rosary around my wrist. Soft, diffused glow on my skirts. Red and white on the rock. Red and white on my skirts. Red and white in my eyes and the flash of teeth in the dark. Red and white on my lips as I vent my curses into the night and then finally, deeply inhale the calm after the storm.
“Thanks for listening.” I say finally.
“Anytime.” says my Rock.
Hands on the bible
as you screw yourself into oblivion
worn and faded
stoned and jaded
you’ll have to face it
on your own
smashed on the pavement
stunned in amazement
everything you make comes crawling back to you