{ what i have not spoken }

i feel all sorts of wrong these days,
like butter scraped over too much bread,
like the edge of a sleeve that's been cut at the wrist.

i'm beginning to wonder if this straight raw feeling is really the feeling of right,
the burning along the edges of things that comes when you're close to the sun,
close to being fully fired through, close to being brought out with a set glaze,
something between the color of sky and sea.

so if i am pottery ---
if i am a shard of the divine,
the remnant of israel or the last
twelve grains of sand in the desert of your heart,

let it be so. let this deep crevasse of loneliness
make its way to the very center of the world
where the richest minerals are found,
where there are worlds unseen for millions of years,
pure silver fish, diamond currents, and ruby-lined channels,
precious gems that haven't been named, strange birds
with emeralds embedded in their wings.
may the magnanimous debt of this bitter season
be repaid thousands of times over, twenty-fold,
ray by ray with the rising of each new sun.

{ s.p. }