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we tried making sense of our world. we ate strawberry jam for breakfast, we dragged our stuffed pets behind us on strings, we jumped on trampolines. we found a jungle in our backyard- the ballerina, the fireman and me. we swung from the branches of trees, took in long car drives from the back seat, invited the garden fairies for a cup of sugary tea.

we tried making sense of our world. we built sandcastles to house our unanswered questions- most of which we had inherited before we’d even learned to spell. we didn’t always know where to take them so we took them to each other. or they took them to me. they (the cinnamon-bun-boy with the trusting eyes, the girl with the bangs and the most eager smile) they were mine to care for.

And I (the girl who wished away her freckles) I told stories in the dark to chase away their unwelcomed dreams. I grasped at broken branches, at cobwebs, at any water droplets I could reach- trying to button something together they could stand on. I so meant to be the fearless leader. Always hoping they wouldn’t notice the holes in my sneakers, wouldn’t notice that my worldview was just a few sizes too big.

soft-cover suitcases

I will give my daughter a home 
in these forests of ink, towering
towards a folded paper sky.
I will give her the opening pages-
her mama's heart, her daddy's pleasure
write her name in the empty spaces
until she learns to stand.

I will give her my soft-cover suitcases
mostly filled with hopes and dreams
(whatever that means)
and some paper thin memories.

I will read them to her on quiet days
so she can hear
what's whispered in the turn of the winds
i will give her a strand of desert beads
(parched paper and leaves)
to bind her hand to mine 
until she's ready to break free
and write

the deep-blue
deep inside 
electrifying, fear-denying
story we hope she'll one day lead
(her daddy and me)

but these are just words. 

tears of grey

if every city is a map of the stories it's seen,
I ask only this:
what would the rain city cry?
through it's tears of grey

falling 
from an even grey-er sky
in the shadow of 
those over-bearing mountains
across the dividing lines-
where charity makes a home of street corners
recruiting your ignorance to keep out the sun...

I live here too, by the way
wiping my eyes as you pass

"oh look" you say,
"it's raining on the other side of town..."

dear sponsor

today I received
the letter you sent me. I tried to memorize each word
as I heard them join hands
and make sentences, whist being read aloud.
I am sure that you must know
I cannot read myself. That's why I must keep inside
me, all that I wish to carry,
why it cannot be forgotten.

if only I could write
the letter I wish to send you. About what it means 
to be a girl in my country
and the messages, sent with this form of birth.
I am sure that you would read it
most nights at least. Then it would be inside of 
you, the story I have to share,
and it would not be forgotten.

pages of incarnate love

I've heard it said that we all write our own story of love incarnate-

drawing out what that looks like.

some days mine looks like

blank space on

tear stained, unsustained pages

crossed out words-mistakes

my heart aches...

and I don't know what to say to you

so like me yet so different to.

I listen to your story, written in rainbow colours,

written in indigo and ink

of deepest blue.

it's only as I listen that I can hear

the thread of love- small but present,

weaving between the words

and 

I feel the celebration stir, premature

and 

turning over these tear stained pages,

these love-sustained pages,

I write...

write the anticipation, 

the celebration of long awaited rain

write this old lament sung over again

write down the mournful sound

write ground-hidden hope 

beneath my feet 

so I have somewhere to stand

as we are drawn together 

in (the pages of) incarnate love.