I surprised myself

I surprised myself by bursting into tears as I read this to my writers’ group last night.

I love to brush my dog. It’s instant satisfaction. She rolls over and stretches out her white belly and straightens her long hind legs and points her toes. If I could keep brushing her forever, she’d stay that way—give up food and walks just to feel the brush’s bristles over her skin.

If she were a painting, she would have great whorls like a fingerprint in her fur where the brush left a path behind. She’s a map—a topography of shoulder blades and hip bones. Brushing her, I walk a landscape away from messy human details toward what’s really important: simple warmth, touch, softness, pleasure.

I wonder at our world’s hard surfaces. How buildings are made from steel and glass instead of round earth. Gleaming cars drive across rough concrete and I wonder, where is the soft water? The gentle wind? The warm sun? We’d be better off walking through tall grass. Why do we make the world this way when what we really want is to be cradled?

At night, my dog nestles into sleep on a soft pillow near the foot of my bed. She circles once or twice. It’s a comfort to hear her steps on the fabric. To hear her sigh as she settles in. All is right with the world. She is safe, I am safe. We can all rest for the night, dreaming next to one another.

Things I know about love

(An early draft.)

1.
Dear God,
let me be damned a little longer, a little while.
I've read all about nirvana and the books say
you don't get reborn, but I'm not ready.

Turn me into a cow, a fish, a blood-sucking leech,
but let me come back, yet imperfect to this imperfect place.
Let me taste the muddy water, crawl up on shore
into the frigid air, burrow into the river bank
pack myself in mud for the long winter.
Keep my gills moist and my body warm.
It's better than nothing.

I'll take it. It's a bargain if in spring the slanted sun
begins to thaw my side, beats my heart with salty, slow blood,
blinks my eyes open just in time to catch the dew dissapear
from the grass.

2.
Your name has all the markings of a church.
It's a sacred space.
A word I can't say out loud.
I keep it in a little box,
set it up where I can just see it,
use other names instead.
Like God's name, it's only to be
spoken in drastic circumstances.