First Draft

He Looks Kindly on the Lowly

The boot we find in the riverbed,
a mummified skull – wasted eyes, blind skin,
rotted teeth protruding from the sole –

honors the traveler who didn’t make it.
I know one.  So do you.  So we hold
vigil, burning, small offerings by firelight.

Early next morning, you in the tent asleep,
narcissism and I spell my name with a stick
in the stillness of the ash.

Once daylight comes, who can believe in death?
Zealot that I am, I walk into the water to feel real.
Venial, I know, but I matter so sharply to myself.

Even your silence is, animal and warm,
not enough to draw me from this temple,
alert, awake to runoff, cold as living will.

From the mountain, I learn strength to take up
space, plates colliding, heaving into heaven.
Heady in the ecstasy of might, I dance,
insistent on perfection of my claim.

_____

Here’s what’s happened so far. I’ve combined a photograph of a boot (by Brooke Gottmeier) with some thoughts I have on Psalm 138, about how shamelessly natural it is to want more for ourselves, and to be emboldened by the desire when it seems possible to fulfill. The acrostic guiding the poem comes from the transliteration of the line, “You made me bold with strength in my soul.” I want to linger on the thin divide between selfishness and an innate/healthy sense of self-worth. I’m hoping the boot acts as a catalyst for reflection on asking for more and better in life rather than resigning oneself to an ending we know comes.

_____

Second Draft

With Your Right Hand You Save Me

The boot we find in the river, empty
as a homestead – dishes on the table, owners gone –
recalls a pharaoh emptied from his skin, still watertight.

Hieroglyphic smoke rises, honoring the dead.
I have mine. You have yours. We hold
vigil, burning, small offerings by firelight.

Early next morning, you in the tent asleep,
narcissism and I spell my name with a stick
in the stillness of the ash.

Once daylight comes, who can believe in death?
Zealot that I am, I walk into the water to feel real –
venial, I know, but I matter so sharply to myself.

Even your silence is, animal and warm,
not enough to draw me from this temple,
alert, awake to runoff, cold as living will.

For breakfast, you packed berries,
sweet and fat. You’ll share with me, pretending you don’t
hear confession in my voice: regret –

I will take them all.

_____

Emboldened, in the Hebrew, has connotations of stormy or boisterous arrogance, and I’m interested in our instinctive move to assure our own well-being.  It’s normal to want more for ourselves – the bigger slice, the better seat, the brighter love.  We’ve all read stories of heroic sacrifice of self, but I’ve put someone else between myself and the angry beast or unpredictable stranger too many times to believe sacrifice can ever be an untutored response.  Brooke‘s photo presents a situation we all recognize: the haunting absence of the wearer reminds us he has not survived.  It’s an image steeped in mortality, no matter how we try to clothe or protect our bodies.  And so the speaker standing hip-deep in the river is an age-old portrait of prayer that serves mainly self.  I am committed to continual training in selflessness, and grateful for models of it, but I’m still eyeing that bowl of berries in an admittedly wolfish way.