Listening to Matthew in December

It’s clear I’ve reached my own limit. The list of ways I don’t know how to be better, more kind,more patient, how to unlodge the sadness between my sixth and seventh rib.

They say we are standing on constant spin, a turning round ball, blue and green, like a marble suspended in vast dark. But I don’t want to talk about religion or our children or even you. I only want to follow the tilt and whirl, until the cold, the dark, can not touch me.

I’ve told you about the way my veins are like blue-green rivers on the back of my hands. Introduced you to the topography of my temporary body. Told you how it has expanded into its own round earth and contracted back to just me. Four times. Told you how it grew the four rivered bodies of our children. Shown you how, still, it expands to let you in and contracts. A spasm. An internal magmic shift. But you know all that. You are here.

Radical connection and non-attachment that’s what Jesus preached. The words have been in that order all the time. I only just have ears to hear. Jesus Christ,

You know? I don’t know how to unwant summer long days, the light stretched almost liquid. You know, that visible quiver of heat, hovering just above the black asphalt. How to ebb the yearning for those four heart beats, of mine and your begetting, laid in relief against the cool green grass, looking up at blue possibility.