he ain't heavy, he's my brother

(to my brother, on his almost birthday, with his permission)

take care of your little brother

she said

maybe she did

maybe she didn't

but i heard her anyway

and took it/him to heart

so i fed him bits of bird and stone and bone 

and gut and cloud and tongue

protect your little brother

she said

maybe she did

maybe she didn't

but i heard her anyway

and took it/him to heart

for lack of sword, i sharpened my gaze

for lack of armour, i iron-sheeted my chest

for lack of dragons, i made some up

so i could scare him good

then save him

carry your little brother

she said

maybe she did

maybe she didn't 

but i heard her anyway

and took it/him to heart

when he bathed, i gathered his bruises 

from beside the tub, 

and tattooed them under my skin

when he slept, i breathed in

his sadness, his rage, his bewilderment

and remembered to  never exhale

he grew

i failed

maybe she said it 

maybe she didn't

but i heard her anyway

nothing short

of swallowing him

would have done

i failed

so glad

i failed

so glad

i failed

he is heavy

of a weight 

his own 

that i could never

and therefore

never

had to

he's my brother

side door

i want to tell you
a secret
they may not have told you
(they didn't tell me)

like all secrets,
it's been hiding
in full view

(you will most certainly
recognise it
from harry potter,
alice in wonderland,
sleeping beauty,
and other great
modern artists)

the secret is a door

that keeps changing shape

(a hole in a tree, the arch between two legs, an opening in the forest that looks nearly like a path, the space between your baby's teeth)

but is always there,
recognisably itself

on the side, and small

it is a door to love, patience, time, peace of mind, joy, acceptance, connection, truth, freedom

or...

... whatever else you are seeking

(have lost, wish to find)

unlike other
better
known
doors
ports
highways
paths
bridges
labyrinths

that lead to all these things (love, patience, time, presence) (lost, found) and more

this one does not

require you to have

read the small print, followed the steps, found your teacher, taken the medicine, practised the sequence, chanted the mantra, gone through the moves, taken your time, solved the problem, formulated the question, found an answer, discovered a solution, accepted the inevitable, developed a theory, gained experience, made peace with your childhood, examined your soul, fixed the leaks (in your bucket or your heart), resolved the tension, worked through the anger, embraced the sadness, or any

of the other things you could (you can, you might, i know i will)

spend a lifetime doing (and oh, it would, it will, be life well-spent)

it is open to
all
at all times
without ticket
id
or proof that you are

worthy, ready, or deserving

just turn your head
one quarter (or so) (this ain't no newton physics)
to the right
to the left
whichever way you fancy

there.

see it?

you can open it (it's never locked)

and any time,
walk through

letters

just in case you all think i stopped writing: i haven't.

i've been writing on umbilical cords, that's all.

i wrote a letter to my daughter, and watching her read it from first to last word was an act of courage and self-love.

then a letter to my mother started shadowing me. i could hear it rustle behind me in the dry forest leaves, but every time i turned around it was gone. i could feel it lying close to me in bed at night, but it turned transparent and disappeared slowly as the dawn turned to light. also, it kept changing. its contents. its shape.

i sat myself down to write it anyway, come what may, and all i got was a painful little poem. it went like this

      Chère maman,

                 a letter to my 
                       mother.
                too scary.
               
               wait a little.
                 Try again?

                        Au!

nothing but the truth will do. no matter how little. no matter how painful. as long as it's true.

start small then. small but straight.

the truth is that i don't remember how to tell the truth to my mother.

and now for the courage to tell her, rather than you...