The Middle of Me and What Lodges There
When the shine is stripped away,
I’m rough and wrong,
wanting comfort from faultlines.
The box of lies
kept in a box by my bed,
the backs of each pretty
pictures they hide behind.
This one’s a bird,
this one a song. It weaves between
my mean places, making me
not all bad, not all need.
I’m song and bird, star and varnish,
soap bubbles in a child’s eyes—
I’m all this, and the ensuing break.
I’m not all bad,
and I’m not all please.
My heart’s full of bird chatter—full of gift
and fears. My heart’s a jar of stars,
hoarding light, making night shadows.
My heart’s stuffed with soap and breathe.