like silverware drawers of
forks and spoons used to feed the
dreams and aspirations of nations
and kings yet developed
packaged and stamped and
bouncing around in the back of The Spirit’s chariot
Elijah’s ridin’ shotgun
little Shelby opens to the Knox
of the door
Spirit hands her a box marked
“Fragile”
smiles, signs her life on the dotted line
courier ghost winks
elijah waves from the passenger seat of the chariot
and ascended off to … wherever?
present opened a bit too hastily like
December 22nd mornings
found tags wrapped round a hammer and box of
nails labeled “trust”
with instructions that read:
“Dear Shelby,
Thought you might like these. They’ve only been used once and that’s why they’re here for you. They’re what held us together, they make us one. One day you’ll use them to build a manor. You’ll throw parties with many dinner guests. You’ll meet the love of your life. Use these to build a lattice for your love. Use them wisely. Enjoy.
-Abba”
tentatively she hammers out prayers of iron and galvanized
security
driving her points into people that really matter most
pouring concrete morals for restitution of unfounded ideals
laid out by her peers
and peers into the existence she plans will soon lie beyond
the reaches of a builders swing
and hammers her wings, riding air currents
carrying her up over futile towers of Babel
she can’t quite see heaven yet.
she’s content with her manor.
sturdy walls rise up built of matriarchal generations willing to
give up their last name
like we all give up our last breath
it’s tradition.
she calls it trust.
books of a canopy spanning the expanse of
all she’d hope to see
so she can look up at night and read
the possibilities that might come with tomorrow.
her manor complete.
minus one nail.
in due course she drops it at the corner pawn shop parish
for a ring marked “My Mind’s Stayin’ Open”.
broker Yahweh manages a nervous sigh.
7 parties into prophecy she finds Love
to give her a new last name
she says she can finally be proud of
swaps “Open-Mindedness” with Love while
dinner guests rattle out hollow prayers
like silverware or unused boxes of rusting “I Just Can’t Yet”.
this here’s a celebration.
7 years into prophecy she finds “The Hollow”
bent out of shape
placed in her hand by Love
whose “Heart was left open”
blinding-hot, burning outlines like
guidelines for inserting trust into her hand.
this here’s reeducation.
erudition in surrender
what we all call tradition
she falls from braches with the rest of the autumn leaves
and the Savior tries to re-attach them
scrambles to catch her as she falls
but slips through the holes made by trusting
and autumn leaves winter to leave branches trembling
bronchiole pain branches out in dizzying colors
that remind her of childhood carousels
like we all used to exhale laughs
she exhales silent words she never realized
she still had them
and let’s them hang in the air
dangling high above surrender’s reach
as she lands gently atop a pile of dried peers
each with a blank-page canopy
rebirth like little boys excitement
and tossed into heaven
over towers of Babel and
towers before the Trinity
faced with apologies she uses surrender as a step-ladder
reaches for her words she hung in thin air
and turning her palms outward
tears caressing a quivering smile
like a Savior she says, “I have learned to trust too.”
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