It is not simply more love, less hate;
It is “let’s talk about it,”
Let sit through it….the ugliness,
perhaps not holding hands…but meeting eyes,
a scouring pad couldn’t clean it,
the layer of burnt on hurt…
But I will sit with it, cross legged-like a yogi
I will inhale it’s truth-
as I inhale smog filled air.
I will wear it, even if it bunches at the knees,
And pools at the ankles,
as ill-fitting as a cheap suit with a chincy hand; navy blue,
Sure you can drive people away, flatten them,
Like a race car driver named Pity,
leaving black rubber at every turn.
But like me you’ll awake another day;
Breathe in through your nose,
smell all that is fetid and rank,
Surely you’ll wince and turn away,
but it smells of truth- the kind you avoid
the kind with answers;
and when the air is cleared it smells clean like the sea.
Even Raw chicken,
must be seasoned and roasted,
to bring about flavor.
Sit with all that is real, raw, even the unthinkable
A murderer in a grey walled cell,
Surrounded by each moment of what he has done,
with no where to look but inward.
Go back to the beginning of you,
did it start at your mother’s breast
or did it start on the couch with the canary yellow floral print
and the rust colored piping that trimmed the arms that hugged you in-
that jungle of upholstery telling a story through faint smells
of gingerbread and cigarettes
And drug store perfume that should be called Eau de’mothballs,
take the love that is there and forgive.