Frames
Attempting to meet the expectations,
Silently held yet screaming from every eye,
The unlucky lucky learn they do not fit –
That they are broken in a way that
Threatens to make them whole if only
They refuse to capitulate to the demands
So valued by those having sold their souls
For but an illusion of comforting conformity.
Yet there is a process without a choice
That lies beyond the walls of the quo
Which is not accompanied by status
But rather with the corner-eyed glance
And the whispered judgment reflecting
The valueless value to which we believe
We are called in our haste to settle for
The answer which in truth is no answer.
Oddly, the breaking free must be
Preceded by a breaking down, for
How could it really be otherwise?
For the frame must be obliterated,
Not merely taken apart, lest it be
Reassembled and the shackles reappear,
Renting the dead man’s haunted house
To an unsuspecting parent with child.
Between the rustling of the leaves and
The hot poker finding a dwelling place
In the tender flesh of the inner thighs
There is a truth burning deep within
The long, illogical logic of our history.
What is denied will surface like the blood
Seeping through the bone fragmented walls
That were so meticulously cleaned without care.
Standing on the precipice of what might
Be and what has been called forth but
Not yet been allowed to rise to the surface,
We struggle to recall the way our shins hurt
On those summer nights when reality was
First stretched beyond reasonable limits.
We believe that now we may have a choice,
But have things ever been as they seem?
Bishop Craig 