Anathemo-pathology

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be cleaning you out
For some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from the beyond.

I do not know how to tell you
what I am feeling.

You ask, and
my tongue strangles itself.
It chokes itself silent.

Under my heart,
there is a wellspring
of things I wish I could
tell you, and my tongue
is the cork stoppering
them up. It is the sentinel
warden at the gate, letting
none of the prisoners through.

I wish I could drive a spile
under my ribs
and let it all pour out for you.

Your daughter’s face is a small riot,
her hands are a civil war,
a refugee camp behind each ear
a body littered with ugly things.

But God,
doesn’t she wear
the world well?

On the days your body spoils,
I’d still kiss you even when
you grit your teeth.

I’ll let you call my arms a buggy,
collect everything you need in them
while your Pasteurization unravels,
pretend Kardashian reality television
can armor white blood cells.

Make my chest an emergency room.
My hands will see you now.