Originally posted March 2008.
is it enough
this story,
this ideal,
this wistful thing—
the teacher speaking soft in the garden,
mouthing my name,
warm-blooded and real.
when I grow tired of picking,
sorting fact from fiction,
lies like stones among the lentils,
truths as yellow bulbs among the rocks,
when I tire of this painstaking plucking
i hold instead,
one smooth egg
one round stone
one child, with chocolate on her mouth and songs on her tongue.
he is wisen, comes the lisp
he is wisen indeed!
tell me true things, i whisper,
my face held close,
warm against her neck.
she sings to me
an edict, a lullaby,
ubi caritas, maman,
ubi caritas et amor
ubi caritas, deus ibi est.
where there is charity, there is love
where there is love
there god is.
enough, i think,
to hold this egg
this stone
this child
enough, to say ‘amen.’