Neat and separate and almost set aside
in memories not meant to pat it,
the mind is bashful to accept the thanks
and prudent to deny as well there is
necessity to even mutually
acknowledge. It is instead drowned, exhaled
in streams of conscious mirth and unconscious
mixing of the present with the passing
tenses. Progress is a pilgrimage of hope
and faith. That in a commonality
joined, the blusters of a bitter ache
unstick, unwrap themselves from tenderness;
Sufficient is the hurt inflicted. Nay,
excruciate has been a keenest deed.
There is a hand to give and hold and give
the other each to be, at least, an outlet
deep to penetrate a deeper breast
bereft of feel, anguish having dealt with
to the brim, the saucer simulating
what the cup has spilled, no space to cover
that will soothe or ease or maybe, over
seconds, bring surcease, a wonder ointment
a panacea of a balm to banish
pain. O Lord, it’s not her ebbing faith.
I lift my doubts and fears and blasphemies
and, in return, make me an instrument
of intercession, make me bleed that she
unshackled be from my unworthiness.
Abraham de la Torre
