that

Whenever I think

that
is what I don’t want to be

the Beloved laughs
and orders me
to be that

as if I’ve called it
that

the angels surround me
curious

it’s my passion
anger
fear
that calls them

motes from heaven
fall on me
from their wings

and I weep

and step forward
and fall
fall
fall

becoming
that

4 thoughts on “that

  1. Susanne says:

    That is a magnificent poem. It is so hard to avoid “that” to keep from falling.

  2. shoreacres says:

    That use of “motes” really caught me. Is it possible that the dust motes floating around my place really are angel wing bits? Perhaps I’ve done a good thing by not dusting.

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