CALL ME BELOVED

Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.
After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.

♦ Zen koan

Surely better than all I’ve discarded,
but what are my hands left holding, now?
The power vacuum within broken cycles,
cults of personality with no charismatic center,
a child-shaped hole born when I became afraid
of losing barbs, of missing the fear if it ever left –
infant macaque clinging to the wire-mother –

but still better than barbs.
Better than shallow cuts,
better than a familiar fear,
better than the blur of decades –
the pale shock of realization, how
two years becomes ten, better than
nothing. That’s all it was. Starved body
with no charismatic center, nothing,
better than toeing slowly around the
no man’s land of child-shaped holes,
too many to cover up, not enough
sheets to hide them all from sight –

at night I sit vigils. I don’t sleep.
The subconscious throws anxiety dreams
that have lost their sting, fading out like
beloved cassette tapes played too often,
  (to be loved is to be changed)
I recite litanies for the living, pray
safety for the dreamers, softness
for the waking, strength for the
shell-shocked amongst us, those also
staring blankly at empty hands –
motivation to keep tiptoeing
around child-shaped holes, courage
to peek underneath the sheets,
fill space with something better –

all the love these hands can hold –
better than nothing – shell-shocked
to be a something at all, oh, to know
how much love these hands can hold.
If I could cling to the wire-mother –
lean into barbs, learn to love the cuts –
how much love these hands must hold.