And if I am a Christian, I am the least of all.
Well, that’s
for sure. I love these words in Romans:
neither death nor life,
nor angels nor demons, not as a verse
affirming my faith, but
because they sound like Poe: Neither
angels in heaven above,
nor demons down under the sea…
Also, I am convinced
that hell’s not a place, but a journey,
heaven’s not earned, but spent,
and prayer is just another name for song.
Demons dither when
I pray unceasingly through song.
I am persuaded that when
I die, the best of me will drone
eternally in tune
with gratitude for every song
I’ve ever sung.
I’d rather have a door that I could shut to keep my morning space unoccupied, but with someone always on the other side to meet me there halfway between my wants and needs mid-day when I’ve exhausted those first thoughts that first light always brings like little beings caught between another world and mine. I want to bide my time in pondering but can’t. I never can. By noon, I need relief from what’s inside, or what’s outside needs me. And that’s what doors are for. A door provides an easy out when mystery collides with what my mind can translate into words, or should. When whispers only I have heard beguile me most, an open door will end the spell and save me for the world again.
Dana Wildsmith’s newest collection of poems is One Light from Texas Review Press. She is also the author of a novel, Jumping, an environmental memoir, Back to Abnormal: Surviving with an Old Farm in the New South, and five additional collections of poetry. Wildsmith has served as Artist-in-Residence for Grand Canyon National Park and Everglades National Park, as Writer-in-Residence for the Island Institute in Sitka, Alaska, and she is a Fellow of the Hambidge Center for Creative Arts and Sciences.
