Chronic Joy

Who wouldn’t want that kind of joy?
The chronic joy
that sits in our belly
before making love
after a long separation
from the body--
that joy that makes us shiver involuntarily
as we brush our leg waiting
at the pause of a stop light—
smile at the stranger
who is us
in a mirror.
The stranger we have
passed a million times
not noticing the confidence
in so much beauty.

I am willing to bet
I don’t have to show you anything
to have you understand
that noticing what is missing in my language
gives meaning to what is overflowing
in my mind.

Don’t look away at sorrow ever again—
that friend of sadness and suffering
you’ve ministered to
for so long.
Look me in the eye
and find that familiar ache
that sits uneasy
between us.

You crave that chronic joy
as much as I do.
That low hum,
the dull ache
of time knocking
at the window,
that shows us how
to love ourselves
with each breath
before we kiss our beloved.

All the angels
and the saints hovering
in our constant prayer
know we can’t hold on
to this much love for more
than a moment at a time.
The gift of your laughter
or in a story about a memory of peace
lets us sleep as we are protected
from the enemy the heart knows best.

Take me into your bed
howling at the pain of blood
flowing freely-
the damage informing
the exchange.
Say good night to all the fear
of losing
something that was never
yours at all.
It is only mine to give.

Adore the poem
waiting to be born
every day--
each time the tide of love
comes in and washes you clean
back into the churning waters,
polishes the cutting edges
you are so afraid of,
yet run your fingers over carelessly
waiting for the skin to break open.

Take the stones you carry
in your pack for ballast
and hand them to me
one at a time.

You cannot forge your own life.

In all your weeping
you have forgotten
that I already know you.
You share my blood by the transfusion
of pain we know—by this disease of the heart
infected by the healing surprise
of another day.