his love was one extraordinary.
it was magic.
i – we – expected the impossible because
we knew he’d give us nothing
less. – despite the setbacks, the outbacks, and the takebacks,
he lacks
nothing in the way of miracles. he’s our
extirpated savior: inexplicably, unexplainably
trained for giving nothing less than the
best
for the rest of humanity.
shedding light for all to see,
leaving trails so that we can reach
home, finally.
we ask: is hope an empty invention
the ultimate pitiful grasp, a way to not believe
in hopelessness? to avoid what even he cannot answer?
maybe; but
i sure do need something to get me through the night,
lying in bed, next to his absence-
our outcasted savior heals
the wounded as if he was born to love,
and our race,
the antelope of our tale,
may struggle, may fail;
but as he sits and forgives in his jail,
i love him too.
he makes my whole world blossom,
and even his absence is a love unrequited.
but who could have imagined the pain this joy would bring!
to be a part of this thing!
to watch him live inside
the entirely of humanity...
now i reveal
this extraordinary love.
open doors, breeze swinging nostalgia through,
leave many questions unanswered-
but here, this monument to philanthropy,
she already knows. she is
prepared.
for him to do the impossible,
for him to be a wonder unstoppable,
she must support him – support his
shadow, the ghost,
the one that crumbles into
her dreams.
his residue is over all of it-
his good deeds cut her to the quick
with loneliness. what do the curtains speak? when she loses there,
pervasive lazy prayers
of selfishness
self-consciously asking for
selflessness
penetrate these walls
color his ghost,
call it aloud and post it publicly: the terrible
presence of absence, the collusion of time and fate to keep them apart
abated by worth.
and two lips aren’t enough
to summon his gifts
back to a flickering heart-
through these doors
that still wait, swing wide open...
violent resignation lies on the table, a life predetermined,
simply served for supper, while the whole
world switches it hemispheres
and a polemic against evil appears.
it is his world now, his subconscious must
testify
to all that is right—and only he follows,
captivated,
studying the studies of antiquated
arts of forgiveness, and
morality. and for the time when it is right
to see.
diner lights dim in his presence, but
even America’s barbarian heart
fails to feast on its own
doubts. no right answers. in a world
where the haves and
have-nots grow further apart,
time is of the essence.
but how many moons brought complexity
to his irresistible goal?
did city lights and faded quiet nights
warn against his inexorably beautiful
message, scrawled on walls that could appall
a crucifix, if it hung right?
it must be known that he took no regard
to the hardening of a heart.
in the part of a world
that has come uncurled
in the face of imminent sarcasm,
and yet still saved by the orgasm
of the best dream
ever dreamt.
if the earth
switched to green and purple
if life was blooming blood on every corner,
if space could multiply itself, square it,
triple it-
if love could be communicated
and translated into one grand, bursting
raincloud, showering itself on us all, smother hate but
not fire,
it would be utopia. apologies
exhaust our time together—
sweat steeps our pores in regret. yet, here—here, you ask?
here,
i would catch the night with my toes as it passes by,
and listen to the sunset fall,
and release darkness when you
were ready. and the rest can wait, for once.
but i am selfish.
i love only you.
and the rest of the earth
is my broken paradise!
too bad i cannot live 1000 years to make you
realize
my eyes
are on fire
when you come to mind.
what is wrong with this picture?!?
a true portrait?? – the world’s every entreaty on the page?
hearts given up
confidently aware of their wishes
. , !
now all is mystery.
suddenly
with all its might, watching the
future unfold with the night,
it didn’t want. didn’t want the epic.
didn’t want the invincibility, the
inevitability of a single will.
pure majesty
the incarnation of succor, the handsome
warrior who set his people free:
can this happen to me? with him? in a dream, or in a
poem? can it be realized
like a sunrise?
it’s watching by the night, that night
that simultaneously sheds light on a dream,
on a scene of movement,
and on an abeyance of all that moves.
no-one managed to go any farther, this
parable left upon a table of dinners unserved—
and the dream is opaquely beautiful.
the dream trembles,
and the dream tumbles.
forgetting descends on it like a pack of vultures
an accomplishment gobbled in the
deserted mind,
and we all die someday-
or stop living.
"i'm rebekah, and i'm a 24-year-old graduate of the university of oregon. i double majored in comparative literature and journalism. my most recent position in journalism was as the copy chief for the Oregon Daily Emerald. i currently live in the south and am looking for a job in the journalism field. i don't know how relevant any of this to my poetry, but i find it too hard to discuss my theories and themes in a short biography. if you have criticism, positive or negative, pass it on to me at araorun1127@yahoo.com."