The White of I
He wants to know
what it feels like. I think
he is not ready for this.
But the truth
long suppressed,
comes bubbling
to
the
surface.
Just as,
the ancient landfill
on that local highway
hiccups its presence
when the wind shifts.
It feels like this:
All at once.
Everything,
beautiful and painful
in this world
hits me with a weight
so great it
buckles the knees.
Never.
Not with warning.
Maybe some Sunday
the sound of God,
halts me in the hum
of our poor interpretations.
The image of Christ
dying on the cross,
forms a lump
in the throat so choking.
Tears, the only words
on the blank page of a face.
A failing whisper,
we are not listening.
The beauty of a moment
not mine
witnessed from opposite
sides
of a crooked asphalt
street, strips me of this
thin skin.
This veil. Nerve
endings exposed like
the bright white,
several layers deep. Flash,
unbearable burn.
A ribcage filling
with love so deep
it makes a mockery of
any before it.
Now,
this minute.
Perched awkwardly beside him.
The agony of his history
permeates the pores.
I fight a lifetime’s worth
of wrenching sobs, he
was too much
of a man to make.
It feels like this, like
the pinprick of the world could bleed me dry.
And the fear
no one would notice.