Tuesday, May 8, 2012


Here, at twenty-four
I sit, thicker than before
Older than i ever dreamed --
I am 17 no more --
I am not 17

If i were in Jane Austen, i
Would sit upon the shelf --
A Charlotte settling
But i -- i am, my self:

Too old to be a princess
Can't wait for any knight
I find i must content myself
To live my life --

To love an admirable man
To be a daily wife
To put off scrubbing toilets,
To cook dinners daily, and
To live a daily life

To crucify desires
(I wanted breathless beauty)
To learn the sweetness of small things -- of
Diligence, and duty --

To ripen daily into flesh
Softer and more heavy --
To learn to live in roundness
Around a husband's body --

When i was 17 i longed
To live brief, sharp and bright;
I'm 24. Those dreams are gone.
I want
To live in peace, to
Love your light --

And all that i once wanted
All the dreams i've lost --
For all i have been granted,
I cannot count the cost.
I have received
Too much.

O i am blessed
I do believe --
I am not 17 now,
I am not 17.

Monday, May 7, 2012

For my mother

One day also my mother will arrive in Heaven,
trembling, pulling her brother's garment
tight around her shoulders,
trembling before that great, bright throne:
 And all the tears she's cried
in all her days here,
and all the tears she's swallowed --
She will find God has been keeping them
in His pocket.
He will give her a necklace He has made of them.
It will be more beautiful than diamonds.
And all her smiles, all her laughs
will be embroidered onto her new robes
in rainbow reds and purples.

When she is a queen,
my mother will have dinner with C.S. Lewis,
eat fresh, buttery pasta,
talk theology and life.
G.K.C. will forget to eat.
For dessert, Jesus will join them,
and she will bake her dutch apple pie
with sweet walnut streusel.
He will say it is best pie He has ever eaten.

My mother will work long days in her part of the Garden,
burn brown and happy
sweating between rows of strong beans and fragrant tomatoes.
My mother will have endless days to sit, to muse, to write,
to meditate.
She will write true stories, heartbreaking poems.
All the saints will read them.
My mother will have a horse in heaven,
a fond, sweet, sassy mare.
She will go riding with Jesus over green hills.
Sometimes they will talk about their Father.
Sometimes they will just ride.

When she is a queen,
after dark my mother will sit
with her sister queens
in robes the bright colours of the world:
peacock, emerald, purple.
They will rest on the porch, watch fireflies
breathe in the sweet smells of the night
talk about their King
drink wine sweet and heady as red roses.
They will laugh.

One day we her children also will arrive, and we --
We will praise her at those gold shining gates.