(no subject)
Amani Jesu
I think there is Kenyan dust in my eyes when I try to remember that nothing is certain in this life, and perhaps I should have written more, swallowed the bitterness of passion fruit, or hugged goodbye instead of just saying it. But hello looks like goodbye from this end, and I have been hiding in between life choices, praying that the stability of today will even out the instability of yesterday and the blank slate of tomorrow. Flying was longing to leave a stain somewhere, tell a story over coffee that widens eyes and wraps up wonder in a few words. I hope that Africa fits into the box I have made with my tears, that I can keep it on the shelf, and someday it will make sense to unwrap it, crack open the paper shell, let someone read between the lines- I only went to where I thought the sun would look different, and it did, reflected in the brown skin I stepped into. In tissue paper I will lay the outlines of the premature baby I held to my breast, whispered the sweet syllables of love, Oliver, promise, the only time that lullabies seemed like essays on tenderness. "Rock a bye my sweet baby" - take my blood as a sacrifice, and tell me why God seems to be holding my hand, yet pulling you away. My Africa, it rolled off my tongue, fell down through valleys, swept into rivers of pleasure and pain. The world falls piece by piece, and I descend off of the throne, asking for the grace to understand - we only call this a valley from the mountaintop.
- brooke peterson
I think there is Kenyan dust in my eyes when I try to remember that nothing is certain in this life, and perhaps I should have written more, swallowed the bitterness of passion fruit, or hugged goodbye instead of just saying it. But hello looks like goodbye from this end, and I have been hiding in between life choices, praying that the stability of today will even out the instability of yesterday and the blank slate of tomorrow. Flying was longing to leave a stain somewhere, tell a story over coffee that widens eyes and wraps up wonder in a few words. I hope that Africa fits into the box I have made with my tears, that I can keep it on the shelf, and someday it will make sense to unwrap it, crack open the paper shell, let someone read between the lines- I only went to where I thought the sun would look different, and it did, reflected in the brown skin I stepped into. In tissue paper I will lay the outlines of the premature baby I held to my breast, whispered the sweet syllables of love, Oliver, promise, the only time that lullabies seemed like essays on tenderness. "Rock a bye my sweet baby" - take my blood as a sacrifice, and tell me why God seems to be holding my hand, yet pulling you away. My Africa, it rolled off my tongue, fell down through valleys, swept into rivers of pleasure and pain. The world falls piece by piece, and I descend off of the throne, asking for the grace to understand - we only call this a valley from the mountaintop.
- brooke peterson