I want to write words you can climb inside
like sturdy little rafts
to float you to new places,
on the way to which you will be left open
tilted toward the sky as the clouds pass
between you and the warm light
opening and closing over your
little human body like the breath of
now there’s a word to fill with provisions.
Then I want to write words to upset you
like hurtling waves
to knock you and all your stuff senseless off the surface
and send you feeling, kicking right into the depths
over which, if you can take one good, deep breath,
you will be suspended
through the magic, unearned generosity of
Let me give you this word: god.
Pretend it is not some tacky regift
that someone’s grandma might pick up secondhand,
something that still smells like old hallways
and stiff clothes worn only for doleful occasions.
No, pretend you have never considered it before,
or if you have:
it is the thing you’ve been wanting all these seasons—
the thing beyond things—
the feeling you wanted the thing to give you—
the stopper for the every-shaped hole.
It comes with some assembly required,
and the instructions in the booklets
are in another language,
or they do not make sense anyway.
You will thank me when you put it together
with your own tools
like something new.
Bonus: The One Buddhist Red Flag to Look out For.
Author: Sarah Hayes Donnell
Editor: Travis May
Copy & Social Editor: Callie Rushton
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