This poem first appeared in the journal Lucid Stone; in the agnostic anthology Above Us Only Sky, as well as my own chapbook One Small Life Breaks Open.
The poem weaves elements of early Gnostic and Christian themes, wrapped in a bit of existential poetic proclamation at the end that, indeed, we are this very struggle that is consciousness, that is the poet. I find it odd & delightful that the poem seems to address both spiritually-minded readers and agnostics alike.
We Are This
Something in us wants pain
as a quill tip the darkest
black of ink; no other color
conveys such clarity
against the glare of white
the dominion of light
the color Lucifer wore falling
into shadow as radiance assaulted
his proud body, leaning into the void
it cast, turning and following
down the ventricles of descent
where he lay finally in the cool
of earth dreaming us, the children
God longed for but could not make
alone.
This, then, is our lament,
pain the color of our quarrel
with what is perfect—
for we are far from this, only night
conveys the absence we feel
with every turning away—
the moon shedding its light,
circling in a vast inkwell waiting
to be dipped in, elucidated, explained
by what chooses such loss—
the hand of something
unfathomable within
murmuring our dark story
as a woman chanting the name
of the child emerging triumphant
in blood ablaze between her legs
and we are this
the cry, the sting of birth,
everything that comes after.