Bring Your Empty Hands

The Guest

Tell me when you last knocked
upon a stranger’s door.
Tell me when you last wept
in the bathtub.
Tell me when you last stuck your nose
inside a flower’s pollen and became a guest.  

All open hearts who come
to my door are welcome.

Bring your flowered bouquet, 
bring your casserole,
bring your sunken shoulders,
bring your head down low,
bring your dinner wine, 
bring your empty hands,

You are welcome here.

Tell me how far you have traveled.
Tell me your sorrow,
the reason no modest pillow
will suffice and I will receive
stones as feathers, splinters as fur.
Lay your head down, you are safe here.

What bones do you bring?
What stories are on your fingers, 
your teeth?
How long can we sit here, 
clear eyes and soft skin?
I will not leave you.

You will rise to meet
marrow split open,
you will rotate your shoulders back, 
you will meet cumulonimbus
and storm fog,
you will evaporate into dust,
you will find your own tongue in another’s mouth.

Originally published in Porter Gulch Literary Review.

Welcome to my online journal.
Most sincerely,