Archives for posts with tag: Spirituality

I am angry. I’m walking to the hospital
so I will not drive. I am afraid of what
I would do behind the wheel of a car.
I hate everyone. I cannot bear to look at them
smile, talk, laugh with each other, hold hands;
I would like to see them suffer as I suffer,
I would like to see them lose everything they
hold precious, I would like to see them die like flies.

I stand paralysed on my way to the hospital
I cannot continue. I cannot live this way.
This isn’t me. I try to remember—each person
I pass for that moment, is the face of God,
and I must not forget. I must honour the God
in each of us.

I am angry. I walk to the hospital, surrounded
by God and his work. I struggle to let go,
soothe the anxiety that lies behind it, to see this
instant the beauty that surrounds me on this city
street filled with the living who show me the Face
of God. To take from each of them a blessing as I
go to face another day of fear and sorrow. To walk
through the Valley of Death unafraid.


The angel arrives in the middle of the night dressed for action
looks at me and says, “How about it, right here—on the floor?”
Yanks me by the neck and pitches me on the carpet. His breath is sweet
as he attempts a leer, “You like that?” he says, and I say, “fine so far.”

“L’il scrapper, hunh … .” He lifts me into the air, propels me
around the ceiling faster and faster, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon” he shouts,
drops me, lands, fists pummeling the air, “C’mon, put up your dukes,
c’mon I dast ya … cross that line, I double dast ya,” and draws a line
with his sandalled foot across the carpet. I grin, dazzled, cocksure, and step
into a fist of thunder and lightning, a right cross that billows me into daybreak.
“Maybe we should try rasslin’ the next time,” I hear a whisper from up ahead.

He is an alley cat yowling and spitting, puffed up, crouched on all fours,
back arched, wings bristling, “C’mon let’s do it,” he spits and launches at me,
twenty claws straight at my eyes; I cower beneath the covers moaning. Great rents
appear, the cloth shreds before me, I am naked. Claws pass through me, eternal
machine slices northern winds howl through an empty house closed for winter.
I am dying, astonished, my wounds bleeding before me. He comes and lies beside me,
grooms himself, rolls around on the floor, oblivious to my twitches and silent pleas.
He purrs and grabs me, my head in his jaws, cleans me, licking each ear,
combing my hair until I look like Alfafa; closes each wound with a melodious growl.

She comes to me and says, “Well you’re no good for fighting, you’re no good
for wrasslin’, I hope you’re good for something,” and slides in bed
beside me, her cool skin against mine, heart beating against my chest like a train pulling
out of the station. I hold her head in my hands, scan her face to find the answer
I am looking for … awake, strain for the kiss that promises heaven,
listen to a whisper that echoes:

“If you want to be a fighter, then you have to be a lover, ’cause a fighter
is only as good as he loves. Look me up when you’re ready.”

To see me, I am small and bound
by plastic cords to a machine
I need to survive.

To see me I am caught and bound
by a terrible and inexorable fate.
I am a victim.

Yet to see me in the spirit world
I am too bright and wondrous
to linger upon.

I burn in the dark to light your path,
to be a beacon in your night when
you are alone.

Let me soothe you and comfort you,
make you marvel such beauty is made
from heartache and sorrow.

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