haiku // march
ten (bread-making)
two (matthew 26, psalm 38)
civilizations
later, your words give breath to
my pain, which feels small,
compared to yours. I’ll
break my jar of precious words
over your feet, those
earthy words you love
like “soundness,” “sunk,” “tumult,” my
one extravagance. three
and you’ve given me
a meandering spirit,
like a small river
dancing through the woods,
and bravely, too. wind slowly,
listen as the birds
in the branches sing
of springtime’s quiet return.
o, can you hear it? four (for tish and naomi)
it is easy to
ask for blessing, protection;
harder to open
our ever-doubting
hearts to the boat, when we were
expecting a train. five
“almost,” cries the wind
rattling the house’s walls,
making the blooms in
the garden doubt their
defiant song that winter
is over, at last six (mark 6)
my small hands, so dry
and cracked they catch on his robe,
clutch the hem with all
the desperation
I’ve held inside my body
since the beginning,
since I began to
pray for a sign that someone,
somewhere, could fix me. seven (mark 9)
1.
so we bring to you
all our diseases—worries,
aches, lumps, “abnormal”
typed on the report—
and you show us the baskets
of bread leftover
and you ask us
if we now understand, if
now, we believe you.
2.
I am frustrated
by their childish demands for
some sign, some wonder
as if you were some
feelingless genie. and yet,
here I sit, pleading. eight (thank you, international women’s day)
for my ballot, my
bare legs as I run, my brain
taught to think, the tune
in my head, the words
that make me cry with comfort,
the pen in my hand,
for hemming me in,
for my roots and my branches,
for the open door. nine (if wott were tomorrow)
I fly on the air
with my arms spread wide like wings,
around the pond, an
honorary goose,
as I dance like a fool to
the soundtrack we made—
maggie, and taylor,
and dolly, and shania,
and the geese, and me ten (bread-making)
“did you use fleischmann's
yeast?” he asks, tells me about
my great-great-grandma
and her friends who found
the instant yeast a god-send
in their pre-war homes
my grandma and I
work that same yeast into our
bread. our hands, small and
cracked, mix, knead, pound, plait.
and our loaves rise, like magic,
like they always have. eleven (on the anniversary)
one year since the earth
gave way beneath our bare feet,
since we, unwilling,
stepped into the dark.
since you asked us to be still,
and look at the stars. twelve (for beth moore)
she opens her mouth
and they slice her down at the
heels; “well,” she says, “no
more of that.” women
grasp her outstretched hands; if she
stands up, we will too. fourteen
my mind swirls like a
whirlpool of paradoxes
and I’m sinking from
doubt like Peter in
the storm; the how and when and
go and push and try
shriek around me while
you whisper to rest and trust
and be and delight. fifteen
“why can’t you trust me?”
you ask, as my tear-stained heart
shudders, sopping wet
on the slippery deck
of the fishing boat, under
the suddenly blue
sky. “O!” I cry, “make
my heart clean, my spirit as
steadfast as the tides.” sixteen (psalm 52)
I want to be a
green olive tree in your house.
but I am afraid
to be even that.
What if I am not a good-
enough olive tree? seventeen (psalm 53)
my hand on the latch,
too afraid to turn the knob,
to fling wide the door,
to really let my
heart want, in great terror where
there is no terror! nineteen
o, to be a part
of the springtime! to change, morph,
rosy and content.
o, to linger as
the rain invites me onward,
just considering. twenty (spring equinox)
today i am so
fascinated by the smooth,
black vinyl twirling
under the needle,
the soft spinning around and
back again, whirring.
sometimes the music
that’s sweetest of all comes from
going in circles. twenty-one (luke 18, for v.)
in case it matters,
you told me to keep asking
for a miracle,
to knock with my bruised
fist and my kernel of faith,
and I know you care,
because you wept, too,
unapologetically.
in case it matters. twenty-three (can you imagine)
can you imagine
a fountain actually filled
with blood--the question
unforgettable
as soon as he asked it--hot,
sticky and steaming?
can you imagine
bathing in it, feeling it
in your hair, under
your fingernails, in-
between your toes curling up
from the rancid stench?
can you imagine
the vultures circling, the wind
drained out of your lungs?
can you imagine
this violent baptism, this
strange, gruesome healing? twenty-four
the trees in the still
wednesday morning quiver with
anticipation
as tiny red blooms
burst in celebration from
their fingertips, just
because they’re trees and
that’s what their body does in
the spring. no wonder
they clap their hands as
they sway to the quiet work
of being made new. twenty-five (for the feast of the annunciation, john 2)
when she told him “they’ve
run out of wine,” did she think
of the burning, the
shadow, all the
bittersweet heartaches that lead
to this beginning? twenty-seven (john 3)
“the invisible
moves the visible,” you say
to us lovers of
signs and wonders, like
the microwaves cooking my
oatmeal, like falling
in love, like deep roots.
maybe, too, it’s why you chose
to come all this way. twenty-nine (insomnia)
it was as if the
whole city was kept awake
from the terror housed
inside our body’s memory
and the wind as fast as the
speed limit. panicked,
restless and lonely,
i wake you in the middle
of the night. like a
mother you choose to
rock me back to sleep, humming
gently in the dark thirty (john 12)
the seed cannot sprout
if you keep it in your closed
fist. your stomach won’t
be filled up if you
won’t open your mouth. you can’t
see with your eyes shut. thirty-one (judas, called iscariot, john 13:30)
I imagine him,
door slamming shut behind him,
considering if
he should try to go
back upstairs where it’s warm, where
the voices weren’t so
incredibly loud.
the bread is still clutched in his
trembling fist, the coins
in his pocket sear
his thigh. “too late,” the liar
whispers. it is night. 