lately, i've been thinking a lot about victoria. and it's not something that's highly out of the ordinary, but, at the same time, it's been years. years. since i've physically been in the same vicinity. this morning i choked up thinking about distance and the things it does to people. anyway. this isn't a love poem..
i keep my promises..
in my pocket.
in the locket you never gave me,
in the pauses that never saved
your promises
vanished before you even
thought to stand by them, by me.
what we are carrying
now is forgetfulness at its peak,
a ripe fruit i forgot to hide from you.
i never meant to be your eve,
never meant to give you that one taste
that would destroy us,
but here we are.
you have risen from the ashes
of Palestine and I...
am still climbing that ladder we sing about
without our hymnals.
you never liked the binding anyway
you said the stitches never let the pages breathe
and i got your metaphor.
the doors of the church though
were open and we sailed through the pine
to meet the sun.
there are things in this life
i have not yet begun
to understand.
there are songs in that hymnal in your hand
that neither of us have learned
how to play
but i know how to sing your praise.
i know now that when i take from the well
i must give back
'cause you're no Jesus
you can't feed me from nothing.
i know.
that your promises were miracles
waiting to happen,
that i threw them in a wishing well
and drowned them.
there are some things
we just cannot come up from.
© 2009 Marcea L. Brown. All rights reserved.
No comments:
Post a Comment