Originally posted on The Mirror Obscura:
Two a.m. You are still awake
The full moon pours stark milk into your room
and sharpens the trees behind the window glass
to black paper cutouts, gallows. Two a.m. You are
still awake, jangling like a payphone on the side of a road
in your chronic dream of driving, alone, on a dark night
and a phone booth appears- a box made of this same
haunted light- out somewhere in the middle of nowhere.
The dying world has become the topic of party conversation.
Even your dharma teacher recites the grim statistics. If not
for the children, you might move to Bhutan or sail to Finland
until the end. What keeps you from sleeping is always the children,
fear and prayer clashing in their tiresome duel. The glass flashes red
as an ambulance shrieks. You hear the soothing voice of a friend
who has suffered, think of a phrase Thomas Merton might have written.
And the word “God” suddenly bears no weight. A vast explosion
in the center of your heart. Then space for nothing but everything:
The woman at the Stop n Go, standing at the cooler in her Christmas sweatpants,
staring in at the lit bargain wine. How she let you hold her like a trusting child,
though you barely know her. Seeds sleeping deep in the breathing earth.
And the moon floating, weightless and silent within your rib cage.
All forms of light for a moment, One. Knowing for a moment you’re awake.
Rest Here a While