Pensieve Moments

Sadness ended up in my throat,

like it was a cough drop I was

concentrating on holding between

the roof of my mouth and my tongue.

I remember thinking,

when did this get here,

as I drove over the 14th street bridge.

It was at that moment I thought of my

niece celebrating her twenty first birthday,

and I did the math of the distance

between today and karaoke duets.

It hit me harder when she grabbed my

fingers and wouldn’t let go.

When children lead us,

you feel yourself bite the inside of your cheek,

because incarnation breaks skin.

Enter here with nearness that

shrink wraps what will be made wide skied.

Exit here composure’s wrap from our shoulders,

as the Spirit’s breath wants to remove layers.

“I know there’s California, Oklahoma

and all of the places I ain’t ever been to,

but down in the valley, whiskey rivers,

these are the places you will find me hiding,

these are the places I will always go.

I am on my way back to where I started.”

These lyrics pop in my head serially,

over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over.

I hold hiding with uncovering,

and repetition with what must become new,

but is already old, with us from befores.

Our hands have been held by others’ littler hands,

just like our gaze has been caught be something below.

Lower.

Further.

Past.

Beyond.

Under.

Down.

Mimicking sincerely the garment of trust

before we’ve yet had it broken.

shards of that lesson unhealed remain,

become a commuter’s sense of ungrounding.

And little eyes marvel at what holds interest,

as a feather floating,

or one on its way back to the ground.

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Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

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Amanda Lindamood

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.