Poetry

Which Comes First

Sarah GoochLeave a comment

My husband is moaning with headache,
and I sit in noon stillness
and hold him close against my shoulders
till his breathing calms.

I do not move,
though the minutes do,
because he needs this rest and these arms.

And my ravenous boss
and the curse words steaming up from customers
and the deadlines and the hours
and the phone and texts
and the coming recession
are all screaming from edge to edge
of my psyche
that I’m off task,
I’m lost, I’m indulging in a luxury
and we both just need to suck it up
and keep working,
keep giving myself to everyone else
to achieve a higher reach,
a wider stretch of influence,

but I have decided to disavow
myself of the lies.
This is my family,
my life, and my right.

I don’t have a cradle or a kitchen
big enough to fit all the homeless and hungry
and angry and sick,
but I have this one hug I’ve been saving up
for someone just his size,
and he needs it now.

You can keep the infinite, exhausted sea,
because I’ve got my one starfish,
and he’s an ocean to me.

Poetry

What I Do and Do Not Know

Sarah Gooch1 Comment 
I don’t know what gave you
the courage 
to feed your fear so completely,
to let that single moment
turn eternity-permanent. 

Maybe it was the demons
who had caught you with claws
and with shudder, forced your head under
a spell that you couldn’t resist.
Maybe the despair 
said a curse that you couldn’t unhear,
and you believed it,
those lies of never and better off
that your friends never would have 
believed about you, if only you knew.
Maybe you didn’t really mean to—
you were thinking about it,
but you didn’t think that you’d do it,
until your finger slipped too close
to an accident you couldn’t undo.

Or maybe it was just a stupid mistake,
like we all make,
only bigger—
like the fib we find ourselves defending,	
the one drink too many,
the best friend unfriended,
the baby in the belly at too young an age—
you did something stupid
in the heat of a moment,
but unlike us lucky ones,
you picked the one scar
that the years don’t let go of.

I don’t know why
you left me.
I can’t even fathom
what you must have been thinking,

but I can choose what I’m going
to go on thinking about you, 
and it’s not this.
I refuse to frame your face
with a casket;
I will not define you
by your dumbest regret.

I know who you were, friend,
despite what you did once,
and that’s what I hold onto
in the aching wide space that you left.
You’re laughter that crackled
bright songs past my static,
kindness incarnate,
gentlest friend,
and with you, I could stare down
an enemy army
cause you’d have my back
no matter what attack fractured in. 

That bullet? It happened to you, yes,
but it’s not who you were. 

I know your name,
and in my memory,
you’re still shining the same.
Reflections

Resistance is a hard-won art

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Last night, I dreamed that I was with a group of people who were practicing saying the word no together. That’s all: we just repeated the word, slowly at first and then with confidence, until the sound of no was normal and not so scary anymore.

I knew in my dream that we didn’t have to practice the word yes because that word would come to us easily, automatically. Agreement and acceptance, going along with the crowd, being liked, being compliant—no one needs to practice easy street. We would find a yes for every fitting situation without even having to search for it, without even having to think.

But some moments would demand a much braver no, and no demands practice, intentionality, resolve. You cannot say no in front of a smoking gun without strength of character to carry you through. We practiced because we knew the moment would come, and when it came, we would have already made the decision to choose conviction over comfort, always. We wouldn’t have to bear the weight of a dizzying decision in the heat of the emotional moment, because we had done the hard work of choosing well in advance: just no. No. No. No.

this is my never-ending no
to all coercion and control

Poetry

Financial Planning

Sarah GoochLeave a comment 
These days, I stop and wonder if
the truth still includes Matthew 6:
the birds with no barns,
the men with no money,
the Father who feeds them
just for seeking His kingdom.

Soon, He might have more birds 
under His wings
than He does usually,
neither sowing nor reaping.
These days, I sometimes worry if
He’ll lose count and let some starve to death,
till I remember He said 
He knows a lot about bread.

He was seven years ahead of the game
when famine came for a pagan Pharaoh,
sending him dreams and a prophetic slave
so Egypt could feed
all the nations with grain.

Then in the desert for forty full years
He kept every Hebrew belly brimming
morning and night
with manna and meat,
not merely organic but miracle-made.

Both David and Elijah
had to flee from the tyrant,
hunted like dogs though they’d done nothing wrong—
one He met in His presence
with holy bread,
while the other received deliveries,
banquets sent by raven beaks.

And when Elijah’s cup dried up,
he remembered the lesson
and told a widow
whom he found baking her last meal,
one last appetizer 
before she set her teeth on death,
not to fear: her jar of flour
would fill itself.
And she went and she did
as Elijah said—
and her household ate
for many days.

This is the same God
who fed the five thousand,
the same God who said
He Himself is the Bread.
He took it and blessed it 
and broke it and passed it,
and we eat, every one of us,
and on our tongues it is sweet.

Soon, we may look more like lilies than men;
we might be unable to labor or spin,
but I guess that just means
that even King Solomon won’t measure up
to the glory with which we will sit down
and feast.
Poetry

If You Trace New Constellations, the Stories All Change

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Moonlight drizzles over the eaves
as I stand under stars,
mosquito free

Every secret of the Milky Way unwinds,
unfurled across the sky tonight;
every nebula proclaims its name
in inky haze and cursive light,

and the strangest surprise
is that nothing is biting at my neck
as I incline my soul toward splendor.

I can’t comprehend it;
I’ve lost the language
for beauty sans pain.

I’ve spent my whole life
soldiering through so much blood sacrificed
for every ounce of glory gained—
a hundred mosquito bites per leg—
that I almost want to pull away
from this hint of a gift
with no shadowed price,
the air too comfortable, too calm
for me to trust
this type of bedtime story.

Some say that God’s heart toward me
is all goodness and gladness
rather than suffering.

But I don’t know how to hold that.
I look past the galaxies
into the blackness,
and that’s how I see God:
I squint past the obvious grace,
the neon joy
and the bright splash of planets
to focus on those parts of my past
where I floated in darkness,
lost in the gaps.

Suppose that God
isn’t the one
who sends me mosquitoes.
Suppose He tucks the stars
under my chin like a blanket
and blesses me into bed,
holding His breath
to see if I’ll relax against His chest
and sleep. I was never prepared
for a religion like this.
I’m still tense, but I’m trying
to lean in a little,

to know Him more in
quiet twilights and caramel drinks,
less in duty and grief
and Holocaust war.

Poetry

A Supplication

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Oh God, give us courage,
but don’t make us use it,
give us peace in a lullaby land.

Give us truth with no lie
that we have to stand up to,
no deception we don’t understand.

Make our enemies flee
before we even meet
and our friends always think
that we’re cool,

and though we break it freely,
make our families
always keep the golden rule.

Yes, we accept that
at times we’ll be tested,
and we know we’re supposed to rejoice,

but that will be easier
if You only expect us
to circle some multiple choice.

Make our dreams come true,
make our ministry grow,
make us feel like the heroes we are;

give us so many blessings
we’re no longer tempted
to envy the Instagram stars.

We’re only asking
with pure intentions
and worship-centered hearts—

we do want to follow,
but we’re so out of shape,
and You’re moving too fast and too far.

Poetry

Velveteen Lady

Sarah GoochLeave a comment

At least I’m honest about it

you say, like it’s a small thing,
a participation prize
that we all know hides
a pitiable case of insufficiency.
You wear honesty
like spit-up staining
the sleeve of your t-shirt,
a little embarrassed
but aware that it’s there.

Sometimes I forget you’re serious,
sincere in missing the obvious—
so let me say it like this:

the truth is all there is,
the universe, the only gold,
the missing link, my trembling soul,
sacred starting place of hope,

but most of the empty hearts I know
will kill and die
to deny its light
because they’re too insecure
to be seen inside.
Yes: the lies end up lethal,
every time,

and if you don’t believe me,
try on friendship with a mannequin
to see if it fits—
tell her your secrets,
cry once or twice,
wrap your arms around her waistline tight
and speak your dreams,
your fears like you think she feels
anything along with you.
Hold her like a lifeboat
as your heart goes under,
gasp your last breath,

and then tell me again
that telling the truth
is a minor accomplishment.

All that we have and all that we are
is the truth,
bloody and human
and lovely and raw,
and it’s all that I want from anyone.

I’m not impressed by the perfect mom,
not holding out for any diva dream,
just hoping to find
any set of eyes
that will actually
look back at me.
I want someone real.
I hold far more respect
for the grueling tests
of courage and humility
than any white-toothed perfection
or college degree,

because I want relationships
more than mere rankings,
which makes safe people
the resource most precious.

I know that you know this,
but you also don’t.
Not enough yet.
If you can’t see
that the greatest gift you could ever offer
is your own bold heart, open and free,

all I can suggest
is that it’s time you learn
to be even more honest,
to finally acknowledge
the treasure you are
|since that, too, is the truth,
in spite of all spit-up,
regardless of flaws.

I have seen nothing in you
worth being ashamed of,
just a woman who climbs mountains
in her sleep
and then wakes unaware
of her heaven-close height.

Poetry

Glass Half Masked

Sarah Gooch1 Comment

We grasp what scraps of summer we find
and wrap them around our fingers like rings.
Even the beach holds its breath.
Even the seaweed dreams.

Poetry

No Cheek Left to Turn

Sarah GoochLeave a comment

Lord knows how to love
His enemies,
but I don’t.

Times like these,
it seems every friend
is a weapon,

every peace-intentioned word
warped into an act
of war.

Love is still what I
want, just not what
I stand for.

I would lock my knees
and hold my ground
if I found

a rock to count on,
but instead my
options are

to dare the
ocean to a
floating

contest—see
who ends up
sinking first—

or play hopscotch
across a schoolyard
minefield,

learn to fall up from
the earth
and fly.

Every time I try
to mend us up again,
we only rip.

But I would sit with you
still if it were
that simple.

Hand on your shoulder
blade, breath on
your neck,

we would grieve
this blood
together.

We would believe
that love makes
sense.

Poetry

Unflattering Self-Portrait of the Artist

Sarah GoochLeave a comment

Lately, I can’t clean the anger
from the air quickly enough,
and it gets caught in my hair
like thick spider webs
stacked over each other
in sticky white layers.

They say to log out
for most of the day,
and I do,
but it isn’t enough—

because the anger has leaked
out past the screen protector
and settled here, offline,
beside me,

physical enough to pinch my ribs
when I try to focus
on anything different,
too abstract
to throw in the trash.

Lately, I think that
I am anger,
maybe.
Not the dream answer I whimsied up
in kindergarten
when teachers asked for
my future plans.

“I want to be deep hurt
darkened with bitterness,”
I didn’t say.
“I want to be others’ moral judge.
I want to be obsessively
never okay.”