I want to meet you in the blood & guts of where you are right now.
Broken, unlatched, unhinged,
clay cracked forgotten pot at the dusk of your life.
With all your heroin needles and cigarette butts and too-much-coffee.
I really haven’t had the courage to meet you there before.
Before I wanted you to realize how the moon shimmers just a millisecond away.
How you might reach your hand in the sky and caress her curves.
How insights flood the body with tears of joy, how
the greatest ugliness transforms in the sunlight of awareness.
I still sang the refrain of later, later, later,
just six steps away from now,
begging you to come closer to yourself,
please, change how you think, how you see
this bright beautiful broken world.
How might it look if we allow the fistfuls of chocolate chips, searing judgment, endless running away, extra fat?
The sodden way we don’t listen to ourselves, don’t heed the inner broadcasts of should, should, should.
Not simply allow it, but hold it close, cradling it?
What if we crooned, “Yes, you, you’re here, my child and you
don’t have to change, don’t have to quit, don’t have to turn yourself
inside out into a new incarnation.”
The new incarnation will come without our pottery wheel mudding something
brand spanking new.
To trust you that deeply, to witness what you’re creating with
tools of bone and blood and dancing electrons.
I accept you, warts and pimples and wild hair,
gambling on too much chocolate cake or not enough trust.
I want to accept you.
To accept even my non-acceptance.
To embrace the cracked pot of myself, all seven billion perfect imperfect cells,