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Dig deeper, plumb
the depths.
Pull out all the nasty
black pieces that
lurk
in dank, covered, pitiful spots.

I’m told, go, go.
Find
great inspiration
there.

I resist.
I lean back against
the pull, dragging my heels.

Must I go?
Do I have to?

My heels furrow-plow the green
back lawn,
trenching straight between the
house and the
fence at the alley.
I stop
under the
pink Nectarine bloom.

I look down. The pit yawns.
Come in. Take a dip.
Dig through
the mire.

What’s the harm? We’re there.
All of us.
We’re there. It’s our common –
ality.
Who is not touched?

There sensitivity waits for
embracing;
understanding yearns
for hugs.
Acceptance replaces
transformation.

My toe slides in, just a bit,
just to speak to humanity’s
need.
Numbness slides up my toe, touches
the ball of
my foot.
Cramp grabs,
tightens. I can no longer see
my ankle.
Writhing snakes touch.
I hear the rattle.

I remember the throb.
I remember the blush.
I remember the shame.
It’s me looking for
satisfaction.
Can’t get no satisfaction.

There’s no joy there.
There’s no overweening
love for another.
There’s no self-sacrifice.
There’s just self.
Grasping,
groaning
self.

Can I go there? Would it help?
I dig; tentative.
Too soon the worms
start across my flesh. My
breath catches,
coughs, sputters, dies.
The pressure
tightens around my heart;
the band constricts.
Panic pushes
red in my ears.
The beat booms, booms,
booms.

My wings are caught.
My flight stuttered.
Any beauty is splayed shattered
on the grass.
It reflects a cracked
splintered gleam.

Where did hope fly?
Where did beauty die?
Where did joy drown?
Did they ever live here?

In desperation I grasp the blade
of grass.
The green life pushes up.
Up.
Not down.
The down knows only sorrow.

I guess it’s my choice.
Which direction
will I push,
will I look,
will I reach,
will I live?

No. NO. N. O. I won’t
take that dive. I
don’t want to drown,
all breath shallow and tight.

I don’t want to
lose all softness of
sweet skin
and come out
shriveled and darkened.

I swim faster,
ploughing through
the air that hovers over
the green lawn.

I look up;
up into the blue
above. It stretches wide.
I see promise, not fracture.

Perhaps I could
tell my perception of the
black cesspool;
maybe I could
say I understand because
I’ve felt.

Must I feel it again?

My ears are
too sensitive to hear
the retelling.

My heart too
damaged by the black to
re-live
it’s drag.

My senses too tuned to its lure.
Pavlov speaks.

I run across the lawn
as a child
squealing to cover the sound
of the chasing hoard.

It shouldn’t be thus.
I had wings.
They weren’t man-made. Their
iridescent glitter reflected infinity
and eternity.

Free me. Give me upward reach.
I stretch my arms up and wide out.
There’s a prison break
waiting, else why
would I even know beauty exists?
Love lives? White purity floats
its banner in the
breeze?

Give me back my wings, great creator
of all. Move
me above the lawn,
above the pull of
life’s undertow,
above the dark
into the light.

Light.
Light.
Jesus said,
I am the light of the world.

You left heaven’s brilliance, Jesus,
You stuck more than your toe
in the morass;
life’s bloody mess.
If I must go into the pit,
show me how to keep
my wings;
keep them shining and pure.

Keep me flying free.
Whole; not factured;
a conduit that points upward;
points to you.
Points with the grass green blade.