the name of this poem is the blessing is next to the wound
it's something a dear friend told me
he didn't make it up, it's an african proverb
but he's the one who taught me about wounds
and blessings

it's in the wound
the deep, ugly, festering gash
oozing blood and pus
aching, itching, never healing
longing to heal
aching some more

where we must rise
when we just can't take it anymore
we hear ourselves sing

i swim for my life
some days
doggy paddle to shore
coughing, gasping
shake it off
and dive in again
chasing the birds
across the lake
as if i'm ever going to catch that fucking bird

but i keep trying

i pretend i don't know anything
but really i know everything i need to know
i saw it in victoria park
when we occupied love
when my heart opened to
possibility

put that on a fucking powerpoint
spreadsheet
agenda
policy document

my soul dances when i hear 'we'
when 'we' occupy
the whisper 'we' have seen
when 'we' imagine what is possible
when we seduce our desires

on this night of darkness
let's all open our hearts to the light
to the blessing next to this terrible wound

because in my woundedness
in my suffering
i felt the pain of the earth
i inhaled the sorrow of humanity
i made love to grief
i held dirt
where flowers grow
i felt the seeds

and put them back
i get it now
bury roots and learn to soar