Your
suicide
dial
reports
soars
digging
into
petal sharp
flex
of
inverted
pride.
scoring
soft
flesh
to
drain
thought
poppies thought
too
sickly weak
to
salve numb
fumbling
regrets
of
past
days.

still.

you
fidget
with courage
you
continue
to name
marauding
nights
touched
distantly
in
blood clots.
you
scratch
to grip
to
gulp down to
tap
tap
tap.

You say
tap, tap
Water
Sister?
and pushing down
further and farther
preciously down
until

still

you trickle
sweet saltings of
sweat you
wait upon these
blood clots
to have their way to
hatch
overwhelming
whelps of
weepfulness while an otherness
of aches and
strains
invites
you
to
once again
card board
chew through
battle fallow
fields
warped upon
ego
stress.

till.

till, tilling, un-
countable
fillings of
past soil and
future
scores upon
the most
intimate groans
from
sleepless snores allow
becomings to
become
re-erected
hoardings built upon
bile and blue
pillars to
deform
the warming spirits
within
distantly remembered
despair
while you
my

broken flower

you in the fullness of stiffness
profess sharpening
movements
towards
another varicous spill of
forty per-cent
armistice
towards total
immersion
confusion
within such and such a
chemical lash
to
burn crisp the crust, that
must this time surely
deaden all griefs
dawning, must
smoothe to dusk these darkening swills
until
translucently soaked in shock
until
melting in
salted fleshlike
disbelief

‘for Christ’s sake,’ you say

‘surely but,’

refinding your place in
your journal stock

‘surely, this time,
I’ll re-find relief and solid
ground within
this rolling reef this ice bound
rock.’

and I watch
as you
regather
your
precious life and leave in
my lap
your absurdly
poetic
stuttering

thanks

And I wonder still
at your strength
I
wonder at
your wisdomful
beauty I wonder
when and if we shall see, shall
share again these un-
speakable, most legible most
tenderful
privileges
ground and grown within
the suffering joys
of transforming pain.

Whoever is willing to serenely bear the trial of being displeasing to herself, that person is a pleasant shelter…It is enough to recognise one’s nothingness and to abandon oneself, like a child…

St. Therese of Lisieux (1873-1897), aka: ‘The Little Flower.’

(Quoted from Richard Rohr: Eager to Love p.111 & 114).

 

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