..
I stop by for a cup of tea
and a song, but instead she
says We are all a little broken
,
and I know she’s right, that
the glory of us, of this place
is in our scars, in the dark
-est hour spaces where we
leave our tears. She’s tired
of taming storms, I can tell.
Weary of apologies and quiet
hunger. I would hold her, but
she’s starlight, and my hands
would singe. So I forgive her,
and sit again at her table,
lost in stories gone. Found
in chamomile and crunch
of sugar cube. This is our
private place, our wanting
room, our wailing wall and
wandered sky. This is our
glimpse of something more
-than, some tender world be
-tween. Here, we’re brave.
We’re warriors against it all,
too small to make a sound
that lasts, but too bursting
not to try. We cry. We fail and
flail. And here, we’re saved.
..
In November, we poem.
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