How almost we are, how partial, how dim.
Palimpsest of ourselves, rough draft carved in stone.
A cry catches in our throats, a caught animal’s moan,
over-modulated, muffled, masked, miserable, really.
So much that used to be or is not yet.
So much dis-, so much under-, so much un-.
Our clumsy erasures, the crying of our vacant lot.
Yet who we are awaits us, and waits, and waits.
The lost child, bereft, missing the You in us.
How badly we want what we don’t know we want.
Dark One, Empty One, our wound awaits you,
opens to you, the crack, the leaning, the lack. The beg.
Prayed to in us, unseen in us, bless our longing,
consecrate our unease, dilate the emptiness.
Come to us, Holy One, Whole One, Beloved,
come to us, You in us, come, and complete us.
December 16, 2020