Litany in Which Forgiveness is Granted to All Things Above and Below

Always the twilight: a burning car crash. Always
the car crash towed away by the moon. Always the stars
gather and grind their way to some rhythm we think we understand.
And, as always, none of these things ask for permission.
Sometimes, I touch myself to remind me that I can still feel pleasure.
Sometimes, I touch others to remind me there are others.
Sometimes, I touch the gardenias to feel the softness of this world.
Sometimes, I allow the hailstorm to pelt me to feel
the boreal burn of ice usurping my assurance of order.
Often, God takes vacations when I am drowning.
Often, God takes sabbatical when I hurt myself.
Often, God takes liberties with how we will be healed/unhealed.
Often, God takes.
Always the love I give is taken for granted. Always
the moon slurs what I mean underneath its glow. Always the sky
cannot make up its mind what eyeshadow to wear.
And, as always, none of these things ask permission.
Sometimes, I feel the crook of tears in my eye.
Sometimes, I feel tethered to letters, sick in my blood.
Sometimes, I feel a burning bush crackle between my ribs.
Sometimes, I feel.
Often, I know that what’s right does not always soothe.
Often, I know the square root of sorrow is internal hatred.
Often, I know my queerness equates with erasure.
Often, I know I will keep on living this way.
I taste the honey from a dead lover’s fingertip. It is good.
I taste the bitter memory of her teeth on my lip. It is good.
I smell the fragrant blasphemy of my blood in my nose. It is good.
I smell the flagrant miracle of rainwater and petunias. It is good.
I hear the nightmares of my past rattle themselves with warning.
I hear the wet dreams of my youth creaking in old beds.
I’ve touched far too much; I’ve touched very little overall.
I’ve watched God apply mascara and flail through electric guitars.
All I know is perfect. All I am could be.
All I know is the regrettable and have learned.
All I know is forgiveness is for anything good in this world.
Which is everything. Which is green and growing. Which is loud and braying.
Which is seductive and prude. Which is decaying and aged.
Which is God and his fallen world. Which is that forgiveness
is as much for them as it is for me.

Header photograph © Andrew Hall.