After the Crash, #148

Lifted, at first
by arms
that reach down
from the stratosphere,
reach from cold space,
from the heavens,
the very gods
who gave us life,
that lifted us up
from our prison,
placed us tenderly
on their shoulders,
whose soft hands
rubbed the back
while a voice cooed
in our small ears,
assuring us for what
time existed,
we were square,
that what hides inside,
devils of gas, feces,
acid, all the enemies
of digestion
are expected.
Let them out,
they are released.

In this moment,
what horrors
we dreamt up
last night,
what images
too mature
to make sense
in this mind,
this small mind
with no reference,
this new chassis
wiped of its wealth
of knowledge,
amnesiac, terrified,
knowing something
quite old,
quite angry,
hides in these insides.

Lifted, lids of your pupils
while the new teacher
walks in the room.
Your head, laid
down on one cheek
resting on your folded
hands, turns itself up.
You look
into the full lips,
a deep green pond
that seems to know
all things,
all the little things
you have been unable
to make sense of,
that you’ve been unclear
in understanding,
how to spell
and how to stay awake.

Knocked down
on the playground
in front of everyone.
Only after the crowd
dissipates do you get up,
knowing after the first
few times that should
you rise while everyone
looks on, the one
who knocked you down
will need to knock
you down again,
will need to set you up,
then destroy
whatever hope
you were keeping
inside of someday
being able to wake,
look at yourself
in the mirror, not feel
as if there is no reason
it would not be best
to collapse back under
the blankets, back
under the sheets, into
the crib that once
was your prison,
once your sanctuary,
that held you like a womb
you longed to escape,
hoped to never
need to leave.

Lifting your arms
to help yet another
helpless person,
to welcome the ones
who need to be invited in,
you come face to face
with the same old smiles,
the ones that found
your body before
you came to this body,
that lifted you up
from the muck
your wreck
had been found in,
inviting you to rise,
to rest, to close
your own lids,
sleep, heal over two
or three lifetimes.

On your last bed,
your head heavy,
perusing the remnants
of this time, of this time
you slipped through
the eye of the needle,
settled your car
on the other side
to step out, see
who made it out alive,
and who perished
in that fiery crash.

Here you lay, her hands
on your cheek
lifting up the face
to pat it gently, to kiss
the gaunt dimples,
whisper to let you know
its all right, whatever comes
out as you go,
whatever prison
you are escaping
or entering, that here now,
these lips promise.

Then your eyes close,
lay yourself back down,
rest to wake,
to find yourself
again in this crib
lifted up by the hands
of a soft god
who asks how
you’ve been and what
you were dreaming.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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