27. Discontent

Coming back to who I am

is a task I find quite difficult

I’m not quite sure who I’ve become

while waiting for the enemy

of Time’s fool.

I'm a soul force-fed puréed carrots

that needs sourdough and steak and stew.

I'm the waitress who sees a spilled drink

And tries to clean it up but ends up dumping

the rest of the coke on the customer’s lap

down his shirt

splattering the black-and-white tile floor.

dismal days drag on and I can’t bear another one.

I'm a dusty, broken street lamp (like the one by my apartment)

Somehow can't find a way to shine in the night

But around the hour of 7am finally flicker on with pride

Right around when I'm not needed anymore.

I look at my cracked snow globe in the heat of July

(the one my grandpa gave me when I was four)

And wish for my memory-permeated Christmas with all of my unsatisfied heart

And when I'm snowed in and icicles frame my window

I long for the July sun.

A soul that longs for perfection in my writing.

Rightness in third-world countries.

Redemption in persecution.

More room in my suitcase spilling over,

bursting the zippers with desolation.

I’m like a carnivore living on tofu

Alive, but never fully satisfied.

I wish for the world to be as it should

For sunny days but no drought

For relationships to heal themselves

For gunfire that could somehow bring peace

For nourishment in Africa and China

For every scraggly scrawny child to be loved

And I mourn and I mourn and I can't feel at home

In a world with so much wrong

I'm not meant for here

My soul is malnourished, parched

like the children I’ve seen in my travels.

I've lived in fifteen different countries to try to fill the void

and none of them are any better

I’m back to my small town where I began.

Is it earth then?

Would I fit in better on Venus or the moon?

No, there's a great longing beyond this universe.

A numb ache that tells me I'm built for much more.