Provision

The words that echoed through Abraham still beat a rhythm

--faintly--

across my spine.

Jehovah-jireh.

The Lord will provide.

Ears whisper of the mockery though,

and eyes grow sticky with disbelief.

See only the present.

See but the now.

Forgetful crowdings of the soul that haunt and question

--lead me unfaithful

--lead me unsure.

They wrestle with the here and now
vs.
the future.

And shadows of past that cut deep.

I want to push, to plead-- to help?

Oh, let me help!

(I know I know I know)

And the beatings of my soul thump on.

I know so much better than he.

His answer feels patronizing-- nothing is needed.

He wants only faith, and that I cannot give.

Soiled rags clutched tight (by gnawed-on-nails)

And though he tries to pull them off,

promising better, freer, newer—

I cannot let go.

I cannot fully, wholly, completely trust.

Because if he fails, I am naked.

The fear that seeps into my thoughts taste like salty longing on my tongue, melancholy and distant.

Guilt licks at my wounds.

How can I doubt?

How can I question and wonder and curse and demand and plea

as if he has not provided before.

I wonder at the soul

and if it knows

the depth of its ignorance,

the span of its pride.

And I step out. I step out with tounge-biting fear.

Jehovah-jireh.

I beg you.

Provide.

Gone

There was a Future.

It was purple, glassy and bright,
shining with strength and promise,
an echo of hopeful prosperity and peace.

I crushed that Future.

I took my fist,
I dug it into the city of forever,
I banished it,
and it is no more.

And for that,
I am both sorry
and not sorry.

Sorry because that was

                                      my Future      his Future       our Future.

Sorry because I carved my beating heart out cruelly--
slow, sure, searing.

Sorry because the hurt behind his eyes was:
palpable, tangible, richly grieving.

Sorry because the Future was so close--
I could brush it with the tips of my fingernails,
scratch the surface!

Sorry because:
sorry is what sorry does. 

Sorry because:
I am.

And not sorry.

Because when I scratched the surface
of that beautiful dome of promise,
I felt it tremor with disbelief,
and I stepped back confused.

Not sorry because
doubt ate at the roots of my hair
and the bottoms of my feet.

Not sorry because:
I see better,
know better,
have/want/will better –

I think?

Not sorry.

Not.

I think?

Anyways.
The Future is gone,
he is gone,
we are gone,
and I am here.

The logical part
of your thumping brain-bits
will tell you:
you did right,
and it was wise
and it will be ok
and go on.

But the pit of your stomach
sinks
deeply into depression;
your eyes keep sweltering
with heart-ache.

Ache that reaches deep
into the Future,
pulls it out by the roots,
shakes it free of dirt,
sets it somewhere--anywhere--but here.