Somehow, I watched
myself let go of old grief
like a swollen rose.
It is torture
to tear these petals
off my skin, these
bruises like birthmarks,
these cities of loss.
My ancient cries
hide in corners
of the house, still.
Underneath cobwebs
and drawers of junk.
You can hear
all the names
I have hidden
under my skin.
Somehow, everything
passes over into river;
gurgle and movement,
fresh awakening, dawn.
All stagnation reworks
itself as a morning.
All tragedies
mask themselves as
life, call my soul
to the stage
so I can pray
for a miracle.
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