Month: January 2025

Tallies

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments 

How many pots have you scorched in pursuit 
of the good life, warm soup, or steamed greens? 
No worries. You’re often distracted by sparkling words.

How many scrapes and bruises have you endured 
because of hasty departures or overpacked plans? No sweat. 
You thought you could cut corners that cannot be cut.

Is your fastidious loading of the dishwasher 
a point of pride or a place to hide
because the terrain of shame is so steep?

You polish your resentments like silver. This isn't wise.
Pack them up and drag them to town. Melt them down.
The Blacksmith turns everything into serving bowls.

Conjure up some joy. Old is inescapable.
Young is no one’s fault. Apologize when you recognize
that your memories are wrong. Gently move along.

How many times must you be reminded
that only love is worth the extra weight?
One more time, you plead. One more time.

But what is love? A tally that tips the scales?
Count the stars in the heavens, the hairs on your head. 
Map the terrain of your body. Make a schema of your heart,

and when your beleaguered soul demands a list 
of what you’ve done that matters,
give it a cup of something warm and curl up for a nap.


The Big Bang

Rita Sommers-Flanagan12 Comments

The Big Bang slammed me awake last night. I leapt up, disoriented by the interplay of light and dark.

“Where’s that damn cloaking device?” The Voices of God bellowed as they rushed around the cosmos, causing huge dust storms and limited visibility. “There are incoming attributions and false narratives. Cheap bombs, shrapnel, black holes, and clusterfucks. Get under the bed and dig, baby, dig.”

In times like these, God never makes literal sense, but the urgency was palpable. I grabbed a robe and raced for the hills. Everything was coming apart. Suffering shimmered in the frigid air, obscuring the path, garbling the few words that meant anything.

The ark capsized. Creatures great and small swam to shore and thundered uphill behind me, trying to escape inbound tsunamis of ignorance and the cruel waves of degeneration. God’s hair was on fire, flames licking the heavens dry.

I tossed the cloaking device to the Creators and shouted, “Get out while you can.”

God disappeared into a flock of starlings that lifted from tree to sky, rejoicing. Their seamless undulations blocked the sun, blinding everyone below. Soldiers on both sides dropped their guns, and we wrapped ourselves in white. There was nothing left to do but lie flat and let the earth cradle our slim and innocent hopes.

To God, we are an exotic species, endangered and angular. We bend light and draw fire in unpredictable ways. As singularities, we’ve been extinct from the beginning, but in limited multiplicities, we eke out tenuous lives in tents pitched on the banks of an ever-rising river.

“Who are you?” a curly-haired child tugged on my sleeve; brown eyes luminescent. Green eyes, piercing. Blue eyes glinting black. The child was hungry but did not ask for food.

“What are you doing?” an old man demanded, his beard blazing red, his legs blown off. It seemed clear that I did not meet with his approval.

“Are you my father?” I whispered, frightened by the familiarity of it all. “Are you my child?”

The cloaking device deactivated. The scales fell from my eyes. The child ate. The old man laughed and slapped my back. The starlings landed and began nesting in the warm cleavages of Abraham’s lovers: Hagar; Sarah; Keturah. Other Mothers appeared: Adishakti; Mary; Kali; Maya; and of course, and always, Grandmother Eve.

“So many Mothers in one place,” I said. “You’re in big trouble.”

“I can handle it,” the Idea of God waved dismissively. “Go back to sleep.”

I grabbed the weathered hands and shook my head. “You’re going to need some help. I’m staying.”

Grandmother patted the bench beside her. “It won’t be long either way,” she smiled. “Suit yourself.”

The Soul is a Hand Dug Well

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

This day begins thirsty, with snippy inner voices arguing
while I await the arrival of Some Words.

I am grateful for water.

We’re alive, but mostly liquid,
with skin so thin and porous, we’re always parched.

Clean water is rare and costly.

Some quench their thirst by lapping up the toxic surface run-off,
gamboling about as if impervious to poison.

Others sip from the bitter sponge, lifted to their lips
while they hang on self-inflicted crosses, arguing.

God arrives and sighs.

Listen, all you secret selves, all you conflicted creatures
fearfully hiding on easy street.

The soul is a hand dug well.

The way forward is always down, rocky and hot.
And at times, it will seem lonely. But you’re never digging alone.

Remember that. You’re never digging alone.

Be It Resolved

Rita Sommers-Flanagan11 Comments

“Hey, Atomic Invaders,” I said to some less well-known representatives from the Holy Collective. “In our miniscule corner of Your Vastness, a new year is upon us. Could you help me make some resolutions?”

“Why us?” the Atomic Invaders groaned in unison. “We’re busy being the better part of God.”

 “Ah, come on,” I glared. “You’re inscrutably tiny, dynamic, and mostly empty space. But you always act all big and determinate, so go ahead; boss me around.”

“You have no sense of proportion,” they said dismissively. “And no grasp of what it means to be empty. We need to take you shopping.”

Suddenly, we were in a giant box store, and I was afraid of their intentions. I unsheathed my glowing lightsaber and circled the Invaders, searching for a vulnerable place to stab, illuminate, or behead.

“Your footing is precarious,” the Invaders warned.  “And you should pinch your cheeks. You need to look like you’re worth saving.”

I hung my head. “I’m not sure I’m worth saving, and I don’t like it here. Everything costs more than I can afford.”

“Don’t be silly,” the Invaders said. “You’re in the wrong aisle.”

I looked up. Sure enough. I had wandered down the Aisle of Insistent Demands and Guaranteed Outcomes. Greedy shoppers yanked things from each other’s hands, spilling precious minutes all over the floor. I tried to back up, but it was slick and crowded.

“Pay it forward,” the Invaders advised.

I emptied my pockets, handed my coins to children, and followed the Atomic Invaders out the automatic door, where we sat ourselves down on a weathered bench with a view of the endless parking lot. The Atomic Invaders crossed their legs and threw their arms over each other’s shoulders.

“So, Ms. Empty Pockets, what shall we resolve?” they asked in a conciliatory tone.

I surveyed the lay of the land. “Smaller house, bigger shoes?”

The Atomic Invaders conferred among themselves, glancing at my feet.

“Yes,” they said as time sped forward, and the sun sank. “That’s an excellent plan. Sell what you can but keep what you must. The footing will not get less precarious.”

I felt resentful and sad. Not that long ago, I was the mountain goat hopping across rockslides, gracefully navigating the steepest slopes. I was the builder of ever-larger houses. Now I wear sensible shoes.

“How can you love diminishment?” I asked.

“Wrong word,” they said in cheery voices. “It’s transformation.”

“Sure it is,” I said sarcastically. “I’ll try to remember that.” I pulled on my large, stable boots to shovel the snow.