Aperture

I could pretend
we are not fractured,
still.
That gauzy memories
fade truth,
and dimness
is the same as
Grace.

I could pretend
my impression
is whole,
framed by
a manageable sorrow.
That my prism
cast true:
a collected, refracted light
against a sepia canvas.

I could pretend
wounds close,
time heals,
Phoenix rise from ash;
the effigy I hold
and behold
will still cradle
my soul.

                          ...or not.


For sometimes
you cast your stone,
shatter my image.
A violent lens
boring down on
smudged edges,
blended hues,
seeping
watercolor memories.

And I must look anew,
widen the fissure;
gape
at another
reflection
and wonder,
what is true?

I could pretend
yours was
the sharper eye;
your palette,
loud with vitality and
crisp borders:
the sole herald.

Yes, I could
pretend
dimness
is the same as
Grace.

                          ...or not.


For sometimes dimness
                                       is Grace.
                                                        Precisely.


Aperture - regulator, opening, hole; exposure of time.

Wry Dignity

Forgive me
For wincing
As I become peripheral.
For groaning
Like breath escaping
A church organ
Bellows.
For not bowing my head
To the last Amen.
For refusing to disappear
Just before I
Disappear. 

Pardon me
That elephant skin
Now surrounds my knees
And elbows,
And neck.
That sometimes when I
Walk
Sit
Stand
Bend over,
I pass gas
Without consent.

Excuse me
For asking you
To repeat what you said
While finally
Telling you what
I think
And feel
And know.
For finally
Becoming
More of me
While
More of me
Becomes less.

Forgive me
For not quietly succumbing
To shame.
For letting my hair
And spirit
Go wild
With the calendar.
For dancing
Barefoot in a muu-muu
And singing
Off tune,
Plunked on a ukulele.
For shouting
At the moon
And laughing
With the gulls
And twirling
In the waves.

Forgive me
For reminding you
Of the
Unforgivable.