anguish and famine at their own intervals: stage notes

here comes
famine, the warring
spirit,
knocks over your tea
scoffs at the baklava

not precisely unkind
yellow-belligerent
will dance you from this
room while
you hug her neck, suck
like a baby

famine
if nothing else
will hold you.

anguish the goldenrod
flourishes in a corner
coming          spectacularly          undone
he cannot write your letter
of recommendation
                                                     all things
                                                     so busy belonging
to someone else
too much
                                                     to bear

(anguish pulls his cape tighter)

then here comes you
a lovely-quick stardust pocket
a cinnamon and sandalwood
girl-universe seeping
the tiny confines of body

famine falls before you
anguish splits open to pour laughter
at your feet

the only thing
they cannot do for you
is disappear

god-dirt, a musing

as far as days go, mine are vacillated between feeling like god and feeling like dirt.

i am both.

how do i reconcile these two beings?

full existence as one or the other, wholly everything or completely nothing, exhausts me.

either heaven is under my tongue, or my spinal column is pounded beneath people’s shoes.

descending from high hurts. forming dust particles back into a body hurts.

at optimal human-ness, i imagine people are balancing their sprawling possibility against their yawning insignificance.

a center, found.

harmoniously both god and dirt.

that’s where i need to be.

god-dirt.

cradle

there is a house
in my imagination
strong enough to cradle all
this light in my belly
close enough, soft enough
to rock me when i stumble
indoors exhausted
from flinging rays out of me
bathing in its glow
as much world
as i can reach
& when i think of
this shack
this palace
this lean-to
firm-standing & wide open
as me
i weep
or either don’t
as often in God’s work
i am too tired
for tears

writing prompt fun

my facebook friends enjoyed this, and i got more responses than i anticipated. (i didn’t anticipate any.)

here is the prompt: “write about your body as a house. describe the exterior and interior. what furnishings? what residents?”

my own response:

this front porch 
a dilapidated institution
of soft love and hard story
complete with creaky swing
and tiny table 
with books and quartz
to repel or call as needed, 
ghosts
inside the floorboards
groan greeting
windows wide open
something’s in the oven
smelling like cinnamon 
ready to be shared
so sit. all furniture
is clean and well-worn here
ready to hold you.
share a secret or two
plenty of wooden boxes
and mason jars
on hand 
for keeping truth fresh