Saturday, September 12, 2015

Stick horse

Stick horse

I'm bound hands and feet.
Resistance binds me all the more.

Someone shared a photo
holding it before my eyes -

me as a child on a stick horse
galloping like a pony under the great gray trees.

I wept so hard I thought
I might die but I didn't.

I was never happy before being reminded
but now I wonder what good it does.

Could there be a burning cipher,
a planted seed, a crack in the iron?

Imagine somewhere, I am told, other than here:
somehow other than this trussed up existence.

I wonder what good it does, seeing
that I can't move an eyelash

back towards innocence
nor forward towards liberation.

O child of God, it's a long journey.
Some days are better than others.

No comments:

Post a Comment