un-honeyed

 

 

Women were soil–
fertile ground without
power of creation.
But I’m tired of writing on women
and I’m tired of writing about you–
The poems, like you, come up short every time.

I should have known the cat would roll over
fleshy stomach up, full
breasts, only baby birds
falling from the nest
unparalleled. trauma: he was
gone the first time.
she found three parallel lines
colliding in the warm place
and said “stay.”
Marching on and around
walls that do not fall.
Do not talk to me about God
unless you see utter-up cats,
falling chicks, and 5-yr-old girls
coming to a canter in the field
as the reason for bloodied
knuckles and mythology.

 


I wrote this poem probably in the middle of Christian Ethics and I just found it in my notebook. I don’t like the title (“I do not know what it means to be a Christian”) and I don’t know if this poem is even about that anymore, but it was the sentiment that inspired this poem and so I’m keeping it as a placeholder for now.

It’s painful and uncomfortable to realize that you no longer know how to define the very thing you believe. All I know is that a lot of what I once associated with “Christian” no longer seems essential and while it isn’t fun, I believe this process is essential to breaking down illusions. While we question the definitions of that which we thought of as concrete, there will be fall out and we will make mistakes–but the life of faith is vast and adventurous.

Today my prayer is that the Lord may fill you with awareness that you are alive, and with the ability to recognize Christ in your sister and brother.

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un-honeyed