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a journey in four parts

hands, bright like the sun,

painted in a frenzy of orange and gold,

beckon me closer, like a child intent on sharing a humble discovery,

to see what they contain

and I went, without expectation,

only to discover the source of life,

a blazing star cool to the touch,

but electric in my eyes

worn pages barely four years old

covered in the fingerprints of an eager explorer,

words well-loved, well-lived, well-learned,

the great Lady Disdain, bandying wits with he who is governed by only one,

unafraid of the power she possesses

I awoke, as if from a dream,

and remembered myself -

a girl from long ago whose own hands

protected secrets

ink in my veins, blood on the page -

no, not blood -

life -

the pulse of choice, maybe chance,

all change

to an orderly chaos

in the gaze of the Master

every book is left with blank pages

at the end

because the story does not really stop -

it continues with every step that we take

we stack the books in tilting columns

to hold up the story of our souls,

configure them into a staircase that we ascend

in order to climb atop the roof of conceived possibility

and gaze at the stars for a while

somewhere in the universe is a you-shaped hole,

the world in negative,

thrown into stark relief by the gray light

of a paper beacon

ii.

haloed by the warmth of blinding anticipation

with face painted up to distract,

to make the world forget for a moment

and rest in this suspension of reality,

I stand, alone and unafraid, in a crowd

of ghosts

whose lives are colored by the heavy pleats of blue velvet,

whose footsteps trace a pattern in the sturdy boards of oak

I observe their silent dance

with dark eyes and light spirit

I am a curator

of memories -

I pick and choose the story that will be told, the pages that will breathe new life

I paint the scenery as I see it,

I resolve -

restoring harmony to the spirit,

posing questions to the soul,

especially the ones you are afraid to answer -

I am

A mirror. A reflection of all the things you believe you are,

the things you want to be, the things

that may already be a part of you, but which you fear to see.

What is fear?

A name. The name.

The name we give to the truth we wish

to avoid,

the title we give to the scapegoat, the one we say is ravaged

by the disease of hatred, sick with self-love,

while we conveniently ignore the infection in our souls, the falseness in our bones,

but I am unafraid -

because I know that beneath this paper mask

is a heart that beats for truth -

and if I cannot be true to it,

the lights will fade

and even the ghosts will cease to be

iii.

every exit accounted for,

emergency plan in place,

and you are already on friendly terms with the stewardess -

her name is Andie -

as you feel the familiarly foreign rumble beneath you,

you realize you've not had the time -

or impetus -

to craft a will -

it is no bother,

the only things you would want to give

are not the kind that you can leave behind -

you glance out the window

and see the sweet solidity of the earth slip away,

and suddenly you exist on nothing but air -

well, air and fear -

air and fear and anxiety -

air and fear and anxiety and

you glance out the window

trying to remember

the proper way to put on an oxygen mask,

but your mind is stilled by the unexpected beauty

beyond the pane

the sky is glowing pink -

this is what it must feel like,

you think,

to wake as a bumblebee in the center of a rose

the whole cabin seems to be filled with the blushing blossoms,

and for a moment,

you are part of the sunset -

there is no fear, no roar of the engine,

only an ineffable lightness,

a budding joy

you are no gleam,

but a radiant star

traveling across the cosmos

to better and brighter things

the journey may be long,

but the life you will create at its end

will be worth far more than you can possibly imagine

iv.

losing consciousness of outer things,

I see only the space between us -

a chalice, formed by two silhouettes,

filled with every word we've ever spoken,

every thought left pulsating in the gap, the quiet interval,

the unavoidable lacuna -

and I wonder

if you can see it, too -

this bridge we have fashioned

out of casual banter

and bitter tears

and open hearts stitched onto the sleeves of our favorite sweaters -

sometimes, I loathe mine,

and tear it from my sleeve,

leaving only loose threads

and a painful hollowness behind my ribs

the first time, I patched the hole myself,

with embarrassment and regret

and a burning ache, an awareness

of my solitude

the second time, you offered your assistance,

but my only reply was a smile

that didn't quite reach the corners of my eyes

the third time, you didn't bother to ask -

you simply took up the thread and the needle

and began humming a song

unknown to me, but home to my soul

by the time you had finished

I scarcely knew myself

...

the color of the thread

did not match

the color of my shirt

and when I turned to ask you why

I saw that it had come from yours

and once again,

for the first time in my life,

I understood what it was

to love

another, myself, the world

...

I have found myself

between the pages of a book,

on a stage,

or a plane,

crossing,

somewhere along the way,

a river -

of time and choice and swirling doubts -

collecting pieces of a puzzle that I never want to finish

I have cried,

I have lost,

I have hoped,

I have worked,

I have laughed,

I have smiled,

I have loved,

I have come home, at last,

by way of you

and you

and all of you

only to find myself anew.