THE EARS OF ABSENCE
I find myself talking to a ghost these days—
to an absence that can’t hear me.
Even
when it had the ears to hear, listening
wasn’t something its body could easily manage.
I knew this then
and I know this now.
So why am I still trying to bend the ear of absence
when I know its deafness is deafening?
Because
the shovel I can’t put down thinks
it's filling a hole when it's tirelessly digging one.
WHAT’S THE ROCK?
Not the bubbling up
of magma
from the earth’s core
that cools on the surface.
Not igneous.
Not granite.
Not quartz.
Not found in the continental crust.
In mountains and rivers.
In monuments.
Not this.
It’s something else.
Something unseen
that I carry and have
from my origin.
A thing made of imperfections.
A poker chip in my back pocket
from a bad gamble.
A halitosis of the heart.
It lives inside
everything I do
and how I do it.
Like fear.
Like pride.
Self-pity.
It is something I must drop
like a rock, but can’t.
Not when my will is in the way
of my willingness.
It is a weight that only
the pulleys and practice of prayer
can lift and relieve.
And they will
once I learn to let go.
