rebecca writing

Prayer

working lines
unseen by other heroes
cutting patterns
like blood offerings
to wash away
some sin
you don’t believe in
but still claim
and suffer for.
the sound
something between
shudder and song
as you take flight
snowbound
yet with wings that work
an exercise
in movement as prayer.
and there is grace
in your grace.

These are 2 pieces that sort of go together…one old and one new.

**

Somewhere Inside

Somewhere inside there are words for you, hidden like March crocus beneath the snow, unseen but known, waiting to burst out in riotous colors that speak of dirty smudges on your fingers and black arcs under your nails. Details of a man who works for a living. Nods in the direction of some forgotten noble quality, like the wool vest you wear. And I could trace the tear in your faded jeans in my sleep, how it stretches over the thin, white, pocket-fabric, hinting at your hidden skin [somewhere just out of reach] lie the elements of a dark poem. Your love for her, lost. And lost again. False accusations of trysts that exist only in imaginations. We embrace our previous commitments, but you have a weakness for redheads and I have a history with men with your name. And we are drawn back in. To a story about a man who pauses to give a stray tripod cat an affectionate pat. A man who smiles, while his world crashes in pieces around him and works to the tune of his own whistling, while I imagine the melody is meant for me alone, a sign that he is nearby and I am in his thoughts.

**

More Than Words

I loved him
more than words
reveal
loved, like an earthquake
sudden and shocking
rattling the little bits of nice
scattered on my windowsills,
rocking my entire structure.
I lived lifetimes
in moments of unknowing,
anticipating how landscapes
might shift,
settle
into something new,
before it was over
and he was gone
leaving nothing as proof,
just a few books
shaken off shelves,
but no real hint or clue
to affirm the depth of our affection.
Unless you count
cracks
in my concrete,
tiny lines spider-webbing
in elaborate patterns,
whispering his name.
And sometimes a tear
squeezes through my stone
like a weeping saint,
shimmering evidence that we
once wrapped in each other,
miraculous
like an earthquake with nothing broken
or love more than words.