faith, Poetry

The Remodel

Photo by Kelly L on Pexels.com

Deconstruction not as in Derrida

But baseboards pulled gently,

Carefully, finished by small hands

Decades long past



Cabinet doors stacked on the floor

You never know what you’ll reuse

Standing back, hands on hips

Deep in imagining


Burn the shoebox of him

and loss and the road not taken

Except the teddy bear

You place to the side.


 

Fill up the bags of clothes and sheets

Cry as you pull in to the shelter

Hand over the memories

Hoping it will help 


a fresh start

To begin

That’s what we need

To tear it all down and click Refresh

Deconstruct every assumption

The sofa’s never been over there

What if we let some light in

Build a shelf for the keepsakes


Some porcelain smashed and an exhale

Some wrapped to store away

No longer on display

But part of you all the same


Grateful for what brought you here

But not caged by it

Hammers to demolish

and to drive the tiny nail


20-odd years and it’s time for change

Ideas and patterns

The fabric that holds you,

Shades in the colors of life


Each brick and paving stone 

Handled one by one

Reconsidered and examined

To determine its place


What if, what could be

What has been here all this time

And you didn’t even know it

Growing resilient new life


Who would have thought

Destruction could be this

This beautiful, this curious, 

This wonder-full

After, when you’re covered in sheetrock

And you’ve cried it out 

And the tarps cover the floor

It begins. Hope.

Stand up from the bathroom floor

And you see it in the reflection

What if… What if that were there

Pieces fall into place


One day, home looks familiar again

Different, so much different

But more you, somehow, 

More who you’ve always been.

You’ve become. 

Now that it’s in motion, unraveled

It keeps going

Evolving


Deconstructing and reconstructing

Not as in podiums and dusty studied texts

But as a heart pumps blood,

As the soul beckons you home. 

aromanticism, Poetry, queer

I heal myself

She needs him
Like she needs air
He needs her
Like water

But I breathe
I drink, I gasp
I drown
All on my own

She soothes her hands
through her hair
She kisses her
Soft and gentle

But I tighten my jaw
And say I’m fine
Because I will be
I am my own

He brings them soup
And pills and tea
They relax into him
He is there

But I will my way
To the shelf
I pour and heat
and brew alone

I choose myself
I chose alone
But I didn’t choose
To be made this way

I can’t pretend
I don’t wish
For you
To see
Me.

Written for Aroventures: AAA Literary Journal: Aromantic Awareness Week 2021.

asexuality, Poetry, queer

Dangerous

Call me dangerous

Call me wayward

I’m not sorry

for my honesty

/

I am queerly a woman 

And I was born set to bold

A persistent problem

To your systems and theology

/

I will not be quiet 

Call me threat, call me fire

Let’s burn it down

Call me hurricane 

/

I am hurricane

I will blow fear away

Rain down justice

Waters holy

/

We fought too hard 

To play power games

There’s too much at stake

To stay silent in grey

/

So call me dangerous

Call me violent

Rainbow light

I split skies wider.