Live Like This -- 2nd Draft

Photo by Noitu Love on Unsplash

I found myself telling the story behind this poem (again) yesterday, so I thought that maybe it was time to go in for a second draft. And I find that there is not much I want to do — I fear the second draft might have mucked up some of the magic of the first. This is the balance beam of process. To choose to jump down on one side, unsure of the drop, and trust in my ability to climb up again and find the paths I meant to follow.

Floating on chant and drum-filled air

in a half awake afternoon dream

I saw her.

A black-shrouded nun emerging

from dancing gray mists and nothingness,

clear against the high mountain fields behind her.

She stood framed in blue sky and held both hands out to me.

In her hands —

red and throbbing —

her heart.

The only way she had to greet me —

to show me her heart

tender, alive with its pulsing fragility.

I stroked it with my fingers

laid my hand over it,

let it rise to kiss my palm.

"Here," she said as I caressed her beating heart,

"Live like this."

First Draft:

Eight hours into the retreat,

in a half awake afternoon dream

I saw her.

A black-shrouded nun emerging

from dancing gray mists and nothingness.

As she approached the mists cleared,

showing the high mountain fields behind her.

She stood framed in blue sky and held both hands out to me.

In her hands —

red and throbbing —

her heart.

The only way she had to greet me —

to offer me her heart

open to the whims of any hands that felt the need for bruising.

I stroked it with my fingers

laid my hand over it,

let its pulsing rise to kiss my palm.

"Here," she said as I caressed her beating heart,

"Live like this."