Mine

You will know the rocks that hold the stones but will dare not venture into them.

Not knowing what fear is, you'll pretend to know all about it by avoiding the mud, the pits, the jagged ends of things.

But I have known.

I have known how gratefully they come to me for sanctuary.
They are mine because I made them.
I birthed them when I cleaned them of the mud, the pits, the jagged ends.
Till I had met them they were not.
And because I birthed them, made them.
I cried for joy and kissed them.
Because of the mud, the pits and the jagged ends.

I dealt with the awkwardness of embracing a thing so small, tried many angles, and did my best to hug them.

And you who do not know, do not know a thing about a thing,
Carry them about on your limp wrists,
Ears that years ago mixed up listening-hearing,
Your bony ashen fingers,
And your cold hearts.

You make me yawn.

You think you own them,
But they'll never belong to you.
You give what you know to be a triumphant smile, the only kind you know,
(But it's so sad, oh, so sad)
And you say it doesn't matter, that you don't care.

But if only you knew.

If only you knew
What it is
To matter to, to be cared for by
The thing that you own.
What it is
For it to belong to you.

What it is

To trade the dead weight of a bird around your neck

For a mere feather

That bounces off and floats around you

But never strays afar

Of its own will

And comes to rest in the crook of your neck.

First published in Muse India, Jul-Aug 2014.