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
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?