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by cursivelun

by cursivelun

the beginning

my dear one,
listen now closely,
now because it has rained
and I am on my tiptoes,
celebrating the goodness of God:

I will forburn
at unruffled dusk
the house I grew up in,
the house of excrutiation,
the house of numbness.

when the heavens
reflect my heart,
violet and blue
with a little bit of pink,
my womanly tenderness,

I will come home to you
and I will cook for you,
even though my mother
never taught me how.

I will use the flames
to make something good
and something warm
for your stomach.

we will hold hands
at the table,
daises in the middle
and the Holy Spirit,
and we will thank

the Father that He took
His time and paid the price,
that He made us new
and teaches us
what we would otherwise never know.

you will eat
and with your belly full
I will put you to sleep,
the house will be black and burned
and I will have forgotten

that all my languid life
I thought I had needed
to be the one
fed
and put to bed.

there are no butterflies here,
their bodies had fallen to the floor.
God opened my palm
to let them out,
quick to sweep the mess.

I left my expectations of you there,
the sight of plums no longer
pulls a response out of me:
he is an ordinary person,
unmet by me.

I fell for you
the first time
I conversed with you
and I will
take care of you

and you will
take care of me
in a way those pictures
in that wretched house
had never known.

the butterflies are gone
and I am standing;
life is open
and I am learning.

the swallows of summer
have come
and I arrive
at the gates
of life.

what is upon me
I will not visualize.
I will live and await
each day with its
little stories and sunlight.

I repeat to myself:
life is for me
and so is God
and so are you.

the end