Alabaster Jar

It's all about butterfly wings and tornadoes

 I, myself, balance between swollen overconfidence and debilitating insecurity

 coincidence can reveal connections that might not have emerged otherwise

 don't (I won't) let the miraculous become commonplace

 no erosion to our shared experience, just a rehearsal

 we have amnesia every day, vanishing in a flash

 finding meaning where there was none

 the narrator of my life, the plain pure presence of him

 Setting sail for destinations I haven't chosen.

 I will not go quietly into the anywhere

 I am already there, screaming and shouting

 for our names to be recorded in the book of lies

 He could listen to a lock and understand it's secrets

 The primitive air of love surrounds us still

 one we share with no one else, where moon flowers

 angel flowers and water lilies dance the night away

 no erosion to our shared experience of making the rules

 we have amnesia every day, vanishing in a flash

 always finding meaning where there is none

 but when I close my eyes, I drown every single night

 an explosion beneath the surface draws my attention

 I don't think I'm the only one who's been looking

 I've always enjoyed the artifacts, grazed against the surface

 of the pale moon of the breast, a momentous revelation

 before I understood the way that love can scoop you out

 it's a matter of degree, this new world cure for loneliness

 he's telling the truth about something, the unusual connection to the wine

 how good of a writer do I have to be to bring us a happy ending

 my task is to sift through the levels of ash

 we're looking for evidence of God, or maybe just for company

 the grail forever sought, purification by fire where blood has spilled

 and somehow, through luck and work a miracle

 his second set of eyes watch me as I enter the room

 to stay...forever in his gaze using magical thinking

 to cement this wish, alchemy of bleeding into you

 and to exist in a space between the earth and the see.

 but when I close my eyes, I drown every single night.

 the rules always belong to those who make them

 (Urgent Seeking Of Round Things Hidden)

 "someday", he thought, "I'll tell her everything"

 ©Donna Marie Surles February 2011