On certain days, I squeeze my eyes
oh, so very tightly
and ignore the creeping fingers
that plunge heartlessly into reeking mud
to pull forth deep-rooted stories I try not to tell.
On other days, I squint my eyes
now three-quarters blind
two narrow slits hiding behind
ancient helm of my doubt, my disbelief, and
recall all too well what our stories tried to tell me.
On a few precious days, my eyes open wide, from
full . . . to
exposed . . . to
with the brief uncluttering of an
unrestricted heart, and I wheeze in relief
for the freedom forgiveness brings to you and to me.