Your story

You have your story,
the knife that stays in the wound,
a tapestry of hidden pain
made of twisted threads of silence,
turned backside out, unseen.
No one wants to hear,
the wall keeps its secrets.
Behind your lips the darkness
is a tomb, still deepening.
A body wrapped in stiff linens.

But the Beloved wants to hear.
Knows the story, of course,
having suffered it.
But waits patiently at the table,
sits resting in the silence,
like his hands in his lap,
belonging there.
Lends courage for the telling,
remembering the men and their stones,
the crown of harsh words,
the women running from the garden.
Stands weeping outside the tomb.
And waits for the Lazarus moment
of your story coming out,
alive, and changed.

   —September 24, 2018

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