(c) 2009
Sometimes to rise to it is to rise against yourself,
against a history of least resistance, paths so easy
they must have seemed right, now furrowed
and pocked like timber roads, useless beyond
their original intent. It hurts watching you rise
between rock and bone only to bottom,
dragging what, woefully, seem exaggerated
promises and plans as though they, too,
were encased in concrete.
I can not keep asking you to rise.
Your inability to surface and stand
can not be any simple measure of love,
but there it is. It is.
So many of my own desolate nights
I have thrashed myself like I am Jacob
wrestling Jacob’s angel, finding neither
the face of god or forgiveness.
Inner angels and devils consume me
until I beg myself to just quit breathing.
Embracing the end is not any kind of embrace
for the living. So I’ve come full-circle
through fairy tales and myths to accept my place—
the wise witch who offers guidance
through the chthonic flux, the queen-goddess
who insists three things. For you alone
more princess-as-prize than Medusa.
I have gone so far to hand you the sword
and the mirroring shield. Why will you not rise to it?
I am almost done hoping you are a chrysalis
about to emerge, not so much a hero, but a man.
How much longer can I rise to you?
May 05, 2009
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