Moment
by
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Some nights, loneliness says:
“Everything fades.
Flowers. Fireflies. Pain.
Thing is to go out in as exquisite symmetry as you can—
Laughter on the one hand, tears on the other, and then—
Let all of your beautiful failures become the wind.”
By That I Mean, Praise
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Take the time to look,
With all reverence and wonder,
At the elegant curling folds of the purple iris,
Or its perfectly formed concave inner trinity,
Or at the yellow daffodils
Declaring spring from their ruffled trumpets,
Or at the cherry blossom petals
Snowing into the wind—
Every curl, every trumpet, every petal
Is different from all the rest.
Exalt the vastness of variety.
Why limit the god of possibilities?
What exactly are you afraid of?
At least try to study—and by that, I mean
Praise—
How each and every buttercup
Holds a different piece of the sun,
How each and every helicopter seed
Whirling from the maple tree
Has its own fingerprint,
How each and every pink dogwood blossom
Looks like a different pink nun lying on her back
Singing to the blue mantle of the sky.
If you won’t invest the time, then do not
Try and take away the dignity of differences
And sweep them under the rug of easy things to say.
Nearly all the violence in the world
Stems from the delusion that sameness
Is the goal, that sameness is somehow
Ordained by the almighty, that somehow,
Sameness means complete security,
That somehow sameness brings calm.
Yes, if we cut each other on the hand
We both bleed red. Look into my eyes
Before you draw the blade across my skin.
If you truly saw yourself then you would put the blade away.
These bodies, these genders, these multiplicities
Of singing voices, are not a threat
To your whiteness or religion—
They are revelations of a power so great,
So vast, that it gave birth even to you.
Stand firmly in your faith–trust the providence of your god,
For we are here—this endless field of wild flowers—
Swaying in the sun, we are here announcing
The god beyond the books, we are here
Proclaiming the glory of medley, we are here
To enunciate the one root holding us all together—
The one root of the right, and the majesty
To exist in this boundless, unending hymn of praise.
Cycle of Gladness
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
All winter we shine our little fires
So that the sun may rest,
And we become the light
We need for each other.
Come spring, she blooms—
Speaks into our mind: “Thank you.”
And moves closer, warming the world
With her dazzling smile.
Come summer, she watches over us
So that we may lose ourselves
In the drifting, sleepy days,
And the evenings when she drapes
The sky with all manner of mingling
Pinks and blues.
Come fall, she slowly turns away,
Pulling cool covers around her shoulders,
But not before leaving the trees ablaze with gold,
And not before cherishing the gratitude
Rising from our hearts.
This Voyaging
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Try as you might you never see your back
Without the aid of a mirror. We go about
Our days not even thinking of our backs
Unless they hurt. Outside of that,
We move forward, slowly,
Quickly, mediumly, always propelled
Ahead by some unseen wind, or force,
Or energy, or, for some, by destiny—but
For those it’s more of a pulling
Than a pushing. At times when we notice
The wind at our backs, we feel the slight
Sensation that if we leaned forwards
Just a little we might be lifted
Through the sky, like a piece of silk,
Only to descend at night on the branch of a tree, like
A sleepy shawl. Go through your day today, sensing
Your back space, give it your attention
As you drift or storm onwards. Know this:
What your back looks like doesn’t matter.
That it’s there, absorbing the current, like
A sail, is what matters. There is no use
For trying to look back at your back—
Knowing it’s there is enough,
Knowing it sweeps you forward is enough,
Knowing it steers you in mysterious ways is enough,
Knowing you have the ability to change course is enough,
Knowing the way opens, like the sea,
And sallies you forth through your life
To where a harbor waits, beckoning you
To come ashore, roam the village bizarre,
Lodge in a tavern’s upper room, gather
Provisions, and then rise, setting sail yet again
Knowing, this journey, this voyaging,
This being guided home is enough.
Landing
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Landing in meditation
I found myself
With you. Of course,
I knew you would be
Waiting, open for me
To read, and you waiting,
To offer ideas and suggestions
For revisions of my story,
And yes, I know the last sentence
As everyone does, and when
It comes, and the journal is full,
Another will be ready-made with sewn binding
And paper made of linen
Watermarked with your kiss,
And you will lift me
From the pages
Of the full one—complete
With your lavish touches
And crammed with my ridiculous adventures,
And you will say, with all the pride
Of a parent laying a newborn
Into a bassinet—
Live.
I Wake Up Thirsty
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Every night, I wake up thirsty.
The only thing to do
Is lie back in the dark water,
Letting the dried, inner chambers
Soak through and through,
And then dream–
Dream I am a waterwheel,
And you—a silent river flowing through me.
The Gardener Tends the Sleeping Flowers
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
The gardener moves in the darkness among the flowers
And bushes in the cemetery of caves and stones–
Who does that? Who gardens by the light of the moon?
Who touches the closed faces and hands
And whispers blessings upon them?
Who prunes unnecessary branches as if baptizing a child?
Who bends down, robe of golden threads mixing with the earth,
And pulls weeds from around the herbs and succulents?
Who sculpts the soil of the roses?
Who tends the nests of sparrows while at the same time
Looks for you?
The one who walks among the graves.
The one who sees your beauty in the shadows.
The one who turns towards you
Even when you do not recognize him.
The one who removes the hood of his cloak,
And calls you by name.
Buttercup Road
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
When you go out you see.
The world opens a little more
With every turn of your gaze.
Yesterday, I walked the stretch of sidewalk
I call, Buttercup Road. It’s lined with buttercups on both sides,
And if that doesn’t sting you with joy
Check your pulse.
I bent down to look more
Closely, each and every buttercup
Trembled with glee at the release of being seen—
Of little, old me witnessing their golden,
Shiny faces; of me getting close enough
I could have kissed them, petal by petal—I could have—
But didn’t. I kissed them instead with praise and adoration,
And their hands opened wider for more.
That evening, I went back to visit them.
The sun was setting, the sky a splendid swirl
Of the transgender flag, and there they were—
Their faces cloaked in prayer, their hands cupping
The sun inside, their lips parted, touched
With moonlight all night long, I said to them:
“You dear, little lockets of honey, you holy, little chalices of sweetness,
I realize you are not here for me, you are here, like me,
For the sun; thank you for drawing my footsteps
Closer to the light.”
Every Day Life
After the Attack
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
The day after.
The slipping back
Into your body.
The stepping back
Into your life.
The sitting down
With your perpetrators
At the breakfast table,
In church, at Thanksgiving dinner,
The friends coming over
To play in a house
Where you were pinned down,
The getting up the next morning,
The shutting down
Of what happened,
The pushing it away,
The surviving by vanishing
In plain sight,
The slow forgetting
So that life can go on
Even though the innocence
Of running outside on a long, drifting
Summer’s evening, disappears
Like a firefly in the trees.
The terror burrowing
Into your body, into your spirit,
Into the fabric of your mind,
To be carried with you
The rest of your life, like
A railroad spike in your guts,
That stabs you again and again
When you least expect it—
When a smell, the sound
Of cicadas, the flashback,
The Thanksgiving dinner,
The priest holding up
The Eucharist, triggers it all again—
And you feel like
You’re going to vomit the horrible truth,
And you freeze as you’re walking
To the store, and you shimmer
Out of your body again,
And don’t come back
For hours, and yet, you go about
Your day, a living mist, a disappearing
Person made of sand,
And somehow you manage
To return to your life—
The stain on your soul
Visible in your eyes,
And yet, you move on, you make it,
You survive another wave,
You emerge from the dark waters,
And you stride towards the healing
Into freedom, into the reclaiming
Of your life—the fucking forgiveness
And twisted loyalties, the fucking
It’s a gift, the fucking it was meant
To be, the fucking you somehow
Made it happen or deserved it,
The fucking you will let it
Hold your life hostage anymore,
The wonder of who you are—
A warrior battling every moment
To live, to recover your innocence
From pain’s tangled trees,
Where fireflies still blink, like
Beacons in the night,
Reminding you that you still
Shine.
Me, 5th grade, dressed up for a class play.
Wheels Within Wheels
A Prose Poem
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
The wheel of death turns, crushing everything eventually in its iron teeth. The inevitable Good-bye waits just behind everyone you love. Death and taxes are the only certainty, they say, in an ever-changing world. Every breath breaks us down, little by little, like a walking hour glass. All things end in suffering, they also say, from their cushion on the floor, where they carefully fold their legs, like a smug giraffe. As the grinding wheels turn and the paint peels invisibly at first, from the walls of your security, I am here to mention, in passing, there are other wheels turning their great, unceasing mechanisms.
The wheel of life turns, powered by the water of baby’s laughter and morning bird-song. The inevitable Hello waits just behind every stranger, flower, tree, and prayer. Birth and bliss are among the many certainties in the arms of the Beloved. Every breath builds us, like a walking tree absorbing light. All things, so few say, splashing and stomping in puddles of rain, end in halcyon days of being held and nursed by eternal love. As the wheel of life turns, and barns are raised, and fledglings fly, I am here to mention, in passing: joy is a certainty too.
The wheel of wonder turns, powered by waters of innocence we all carry whether we sense them or not. It’s there carrying the inevitable inhalation of awe just behind every sunset and moment of revelation thrumming in your body. Every time the hawk glides by, every time spring raises its enchanting exhale, every time the Beloved meets you as you move to help another—the wheel of wonder turns the imagination to create new pathways for the innocence to appear and move closer—like the heron, like the deer, like the compassion with which you bestow upon yourself and the soul of the world.
I am here to mention, in passing, there are many wheels turning in our hearts. Witness each moment awake–for what it is—an ending, a beginning—the pause in a kiss, the hearts-touching-embrace and the stepping back. If you become afraid of the cycle, move inwardly toward yourself to treat yourself with all the patience you would give to a friend. The wheels will always turn. And there is nothing to the idea of being caught up in them—caught up in the wheels of birth and death. We can no more get stuck in those wheels as we can in a dream. We are here—this moment. Be attached. Be ready to loosen into the sky, like a ribbon of laughter. Yes, the road changes, while at the same time, the destination stays the same—the certainty of all certainties is there–the Beloved—waiting, holding the baskets of the bread of kindness you made all those years. What matters now is which wheels do you see in your eyes when you look in the mirror? Which wheels do you see in the eyes of another? One wheel mauls us into dust; one unfolds us, like morning; one lifts us, like a ferris wheel where we can pause to brush the stars with our fingers, and to kiss.
I will not say: Enjoy the ride. Instead, I will say, in passing, be soil and let the water nourish you, and so too, be water and nourish the world.