The Bloom of Dissonance

Light drops. The blade of doubt
tender against my palm.

I exhale, wait for the plane
to re-emerge from the pine

as though this matters, somehow.
As though one far point of light

might rewrite fate, and the boughs,
a shade softer than night,

were salvation's door.
My pulse insists: Belief is all.

It welcomes us before
we reckon why — velvet, familial —

until mind sneers
it's just a vagrant god's ploy

to feed my trust. Until
I turn the blade on myself,

dissect my own dissonance.
The wound is the place the light enters,

Rumi sang. Fine. I preach
compassion to my students

but can’t disavow my own
misgiving. Translate

love's vast opacities
with one eye desperate for affinity

and the other pinned on dissolution.
No one can say

I haven’t circumnavigated the dark,
slashed and burned my path,

let disarray contort me at last
into something I cannot flee.

So why can I not go through the world
eyes fully open

and still find a home in the human?