When the jagged edges of anger
and the sharp points of pain
have worn down,
it’s time to grieve the sweetness.
The slope of the shoulder,
the warmth of the gaze,
the mystery of the soft night,
and the sounds of the water lapping against
the walls of memory.
When shape of the situation
is no longer a shape –
not a shocking sculpture in a public square,
not a thing to be felt and seen
and handled –
when it has eroded into dust
and been blown about
and settled into warm
sand underfoot,
gather the petals of a flower.
Put the petals in a bowl of clear water in the sun.
Dip your fingertips in,
and paint your face
with petal water.
When your nights are full of dreams
of other people, other shapes,
and new roads
and opening doorways,
go down to the sea
and draw curving lines with your fingers
in the warm sand.
Carve a shallow bowl for loneliness
and a deep one for joy.
Let them be side by side
in your kitchen,
at your hearth.
-Albuquerque, NM, 2022
