12
A thumping in the background, but it’s
coming from inside my chest; self-awareness
may be, for me, how I pay my chits,
making room for Him, and those I impress,
within the boundaries of my body;
but a fear of the unknown comes with it;
I put away my clock—to be what He
is to me: I absorb his breath, in respite,
and the connection that, through it, I feel,
something that a clock would paint over.
Come with me, to a forgotten time: steal
away—embrace the love we discover.
So, the poet, too, wants my body, and
I must offer it up: it’s my nature,
I can’t help it, to show, and understand,
the ways I backchannel past and future,
combining them into one—a present,
that, I find, is free of anxiety.
I don’t always find His encouragement:
I wonder, as such, if I’m too free,
but it’s not just my anxiety I
feel—it’s His, too, and I must expiate
that which tortures me. So, don’t I try
to find Him, and that which I would relate,
a moment, between us, that relieves us
both, a moment that we rely on each
other to find, to bring to the surface,
to get through the day that we beseech,
the promise of something better? Every
day, for us, should be better than the last,
as we approach the end of our journey,
arriving at our final home, unsurpassed.
The poet looks up to me—he changes
form: this one may, or may not, lust
after me—it’s good, sometimes, if He says,
one way or the other, that He is just
serving me, protecting me, in his way.
I turn, with secret shame, to the religion
I neglect, at the beginning of my day,
doing whatever it takes, under the gun,
to placate me. I’m here, for you to see,
showing me that life is possible when
you share a different brain chemistry,
a continuous longing for His zen,
the divine, drunken oblivion for all.
“But I am here, for you, too—believe in
me, that I can live up to Jesus, a tall
order, more joyous than I’ve ever been.”