I was always told the passive voice
should be avoided, since it does not result
in drama. Still, my rebel soul's been captivated
by peace. Things have been said and done, and these
must not be allowed to continue on unnamed.
There are words which must be spoken with unrelenting
quietude, with love that leaves nothing forgotten, but keeps
no record of wrongs. Things have been said and done.
I have done my share of them; this much
I must confess. As for the rest, the telling
may be the task of another, but for me,
to speak will always be passive, and the words of blame
must all give way to deeds of restoration.
Things have been done, and much remains to do.

Love

is

neither

the fullness

nor the poverty.

Do not be distracted by such

incidentals. Love is the endless economy,

the current and the currency

that flows in between

the endless

motion

of

peace.

Tears are somewhat elegant in the abstract.
Diamonds of dew rest on velvety rose-petal cheeks.
It's awkward, though, when your nose blossoms red,
billowing out to twice its normal width.

Beneath translucent skin, your glowing veins
form a lacy network, hot with pulsing blood.
Mathematically beautiful, but I flinch because I know
how one's stomach clenches up with every sob,
bile rising sharp and diamond-bright.

They milled around the cooler in awkward silence,
bobbing between the ice cubes while enormous
infant fingers splashed in the cold water,
searching, hungry with anticipation.

The party is over. Crawfish carcasses
stare from the table, dull-eyed and sunburn red.
The cat sniffs inquiringly, but their flesh
has mostly been picked over. The sky unfurls
pure as a morning glory. Birds preen,
bustle about their various errands, and chatter
lightly. I pace the yard in silence, gather
up the paper plates and empty cans,
boil water for the coffee, and feed the cat.