Take Me to Church {a poem}

Touching spines of books,
like the one that transported you
to a farm in Missouri in the 1950s
where a girl who would become a poet
who would become your teacher
who would love lilacs and horses
who would die too soon
grew up

Bagging up a dozen empty binders
and hauling that bag
to the cold attic crammed
with other people's detritus

Taking all of the framed photos
off the glass shelves thick with dust,
gazing at the past and wondering --
if somewhere it's gazing back at you --
what it would say about who you've become

Crawling not in contrition or groveling
but to remember what it's like
to play and delight in the discovery
of new ways of moving
through space

Sitting knee to knee with a woman
who emerged from your own body
and now makes you laugh so hard
tears stream down your face
as you gasp for breath
in the best kind of way

Clear seeing of all the undue pressure
when all along you've been
doing enough
being enough
good enough

Drinking cold water
from a recycled jam jar
Inhaling freshly ground coffee
to make sure your sense of smell is intact

Reading about a friend's
ripening heart and giving thanks
for his virtual hand reaching
across the ether

Letting go --
the books you know you'll never read
the clothes you know you'll never wear
the language you know you'll never learn
the path you know you'll never take
less resignation than proclamation
that the time for questioning everything
called a ceasefire years ago
and you just found the telegram
while you were sweeping
under the couch

Make peace with yourself
and even when nothing seems to different
around you, seeing what strange new birds
fly to your window
and flock in the trees that guard
your temporary dwelling

You were never meant to be perfect
Just ask God next time you go
to the church of your choosing

No, you came here to hide and seek
and seek and find
and finally,
one day,
maybe even today,
realize that even the moon
has always known your name
and even your name is yours to keep changing