Splinter
Last night I went to a poetry workshop, the kind mc'd by someone Totally Jazzed about connections, the kind that meets in a tiny bar foaming neon at the mouth, and the kind where they put you in random groups to write-share-talk-write-share-talk, and then you go home.
A person in my group with a daughter named Lola wrote a poem about the self-destructive sexual pathology of her past in which she referred to her past self as the blue woman. A high school science teacher complained about every prompt, especially the one where you were supposed to say the worst thing you've ever done (those things are dealt with and finished, and there is no reason to dig them up, she said). A German guy told us the worst thing about him was that he was manipulative, which in itself was kind of manipulative. There was a woman, 25, a speech therapist with blonde ringlets and red lipstick, who cried and said she couldn't do it, couldn't face herself. She smoked those long skinny cigarettes, crying softly and speaking even softer. It was too loud to hear every word, but we all nodded in agreement. The mother of Lola told the beautiful crying girl that just the other day, a friend of hers who is all into Jesus, bless her heart, was telling her about the crucifixion, and it occurred to her then, to Lola's mother, just the other day, that we have to face our crucifixion. We have to do it. And she said it like that, in italics, to show us what she thought about life and redemption and suffering.
Then later that night, on my balcony, the sun was gone, the bats were flying, and my body was requesting a valium or another coffee or a beer or anything, please. And I pictured it—carrying my cross up a hill, perpetually, with the wood splintering into my back, each splinter a poem.
And now I'm thinking ("now" being the next day, and I'm in my office, and there are no windows but the entrance wall is all glass so that I can see my coworker across the hall. Thankfully there is a logo blocking us from making eye contact, but I can see his shoes and knees all day as I'm sure he can see mine) grace does not exist on a cellular level. It is, it must be, supernatural. Bearing your own cross isn't redemption; it's survival.
Across from me, my coworker's khakid knees quake as I write this poem. It’s about a lesson I’ve learned a million times and will need to learn a million more.
