She had no oxygen…so I brought the metal devil to her.
Just a tourniquet for a blistered soul.
She never fared well, cold.
A tsunami were the words…she did not say.
One sinner could cling to her devotion.
Just as I, began to sink slowly in her god-fearing lifeboat.
Out and out, by myself, in a turbulent ocean.
Every Sunday metal tank set at ease.
No longer was she…to kneel before the hosanna.
Wheeled, forefront and center, beside other elders…
strands of rosaries, strung together like christmas lights.
A hymn all their own.
One Sunday with all the prayers of faith and health.
I choose to resist her because I cannot change her.
No stormy epiphany.
Just a maze of textures…unrelenting.
Provoking my soul.
Mother’s visceral encampment absorbs all that is bold.
And, so, she and I go.
I resist her akin to my worshiping her.
Awaiting another tale to unfold.
This small window of opportunity.
A brisk period of time to dust love off and let it shine.
Vows of devotion…a bit brutish and unkind.
I can only deem my love’s memory as, savory with age.
It may sway through a realm of bold bouts, heart-shaped and reticent.
Yet, land in the middle.
Such as the inside of a prized candy, lasting and consistent.
These are the thick of things.
Not flowered in always or forever.
But tenderness in the here and now.
My love does not linger on slippery slopes of what is to come.
My love does not lay in what was.
My love, an organic rhythm.
A divine comedy.
A divine tragedy.
And, the symphony between.