I have a familial connection with Poetry Magazine.  While I am not an avid poetry reader, I repeatedly find that when I do take the time I can usually find something that hits hard, touches a note in me that I did not expect.

I have been having an emotional day.  I do not know why, nor where it is coming from, but certain songs come or moments of painful beauty, thoughts and wishes.  I have been thinking of my parents, and doing finishing work on forgiveness.

I was once told that it is possible to gain great insight just by randomly picking a page from a significant book, the Bible, Koran, or other book of teachings, somewhat like casting the I Ching.  It is a way of allowing the world to talk to you, connecting with it. LOL, I am not sure how this applies here, but I was working on my art today, had a long section of difficulty and stopped to read some poetry.  And this came to me.



I thought we were playing a game
in a forest that day.
I ran as my mother chased me.
But she’d been stung by a bee.
Or bitten by a snake.
She shouted my name, which
even as a child I knew was not
“Stop. Please. I’m dying.”
I ran deeper
into the bright black trees
as she chased me: How
lovely the little bits and pieces.
The fingernails, the teeth. Even
the bombed cathedrals
being built inside of me.
How sweet
the eye socket. The spine. The
curious, distant possibility that God
had given courage
to human beings
that we might
suffer a little longer.
And by the time
I was willing to admit that
all along
all along
I’d known it was no game
I was a grown woman, turning
back, too late.
Forgiveness, so difficult, particularly for yourself.  Mistakes made, injury done, actions taken for reasons beyond understanding.  The experience avoided, the understanding refused, until now, maybe too late, but experienced none the less.  Experienced, the only way to move through.
The Eroticist