Month: May 2025

Too Many Jesuses

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment

If I speak in the tongues of angels and women, of cancers, mildew, and broken teeth, but have not love, nothing much happens. Most platitudes are contradictions. Old mirrors and darkened glass neither reflect nor foretell with any degree of accuracy.

Some mornings are especially challenging. The tension created by too many Jesuses is barely offset by the comfort of familiar bedding and my jar of pencils. Sometimes, deep in the night, I try summoning one of them to ward off the neurotoxicities of unwanted wakefulness, but it never works. The Jesuses are neither respectful nor tethered to any particular reality. They argue among themselves noisily and without end. I regret inviting any of them in. I want them gone.

“I see where you’re coming from,” my Coauthor comments as she seats herself cross-legged, leaning back against the bookshelf. She shoos the contentious Jesuses away. “Go on outside. The water’s clear. The sky is lifting. The cranes could use a visit.”

I stare at my Coauthor. She stares back.

“Do you really see where I’m coming from?” I ask, hoping for sympathy and unequivocal adoration.

Her slight nod is unsympathetic. She’s sizing me up. I do not feel adored.

“And I see where you’re going,” the Voice of Creation adds.

Sunday school rears its ugly head. Dread hot-flashes through my body.

“The cross?” I squeak.

“Yes,” my Coauthor nods. “The one by the highway and the three on the hill to the south. Cut them down. The cultish homage to human brutality offends me.”

My eyes widen. “Well, that’s not very nice. What about loving thy neighbor? What about redemption?”

She laughs. The Jesuses crowd back in.

“The cranes are fine,” they report. “And the air is sweet. Everything that ever bloomed is blooming and there’s a wild greening underway.”

 I want to be the sweetness in the air. I want to be a wild greening.

“Ah-ha! You’re an anti-zealot,” one of the Jesuses points with derision.

“Am not,” I retort, uncertain of what that would even mean.

“Leave her be,” my Coauthor commands, glaring at the accusing Jesus. “I brought you into this world. I can take you out.”

The Jesuses exaggerate snapping to attention. Their eyes twinkle, their lips twitch.

Then one of them shouts, “Dogpile!” and we all jump on the Coauthor, trying to tickle her into a better mood.

“Hey, I made rhubarb banana bread yesterday,” I holler above the fracas. “Let’s have some for breakfast.”

We sort ourselves out, clamor to the heart of the kitchen, and break the moist bread together, dipping morsels in milk and drizzling stolen honey into our strong black tea.

Friendly Fire

Rita Sommers-Flanagan11 Comments 
Each moment is a drink of water,
a green ball bouncing down
the gravel road, a quandary as simple

as kindness, the idea of more stars.
There’s nothing to fear 
but the snapping of branches in the wind.

To live as a split infinitive is a sign of courage, 
a matter of style. Nothing is absolute.
To live now, half-formed, 

circling like a sharp-eyed hawk
is to accept an unnamed infinity
and a sense of chronic dislocation.

We are pages in a book of promises,
lies that come true, wishes that don’t,
dawns that arrive, nights that fall.

Give me your time. I’ll give you mine. 
After the danger of frost has passed
we’ll plant tomatoes and roses and basil

and go through the motions of poetry.
As the meaning soaks in we will succumb
to the vast and friendly fires of the sun.

Familiars

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Photo credit: Anonymous Friend

My body is only vaguely familiar this morning. We greet each other suspiciously, as if one of us hails from the Deep State and the other from Nirvana. We shake hands, staring at our knobby knuckles and prominent veins, and try to agree on a reasonable plan for the day.

We’re joined by a Holy Threesome. My body and I glance at each other, wondering if we should genuflect or drop to our knees.

“Do you like the curled posture of prayerful supplicants? Knees bent, hands folded, head bowed?” we ask the Ubiquitous Coauthors.

“Not especially,” they shrug. “Reminds us of chained prisoners being shaved.”

“Did you hear that?” I ask my ears sarcastically. “Maybe they were just praying.”

My ears have become accustomed to hearing lies. Incredulity is our new constant.

We invite the Coauthors to join us for morning libations. All the Interdimensional Beings in the vicinity appear because the day is gray, and they have little to do. The Coauthors introduce my body and me as the hosts.

“And what are your names?” I ask as I pass around a plate of digestives.

They laugh. Crumbs fly from the communion table and the dogs happily lick them up.

My former selves also arrive uninvited. The supply of digestives, toast, and beer dwindles. My memories are conflicted, insights constrained, and my collective reach no longer exceeds my collective grasp. The raucous chatter irritates me.

“Quiet!” I demand. “I have a question for the Coauthors.”

I square my shoulders, face the Creative Force of the Universe, and ask, “Could you tell us the truth?”

“That’s a big ask,” they say. “Members of your species are busily denying history, science and common sense. Not sure what we can do about that.”

The Interdimensional Beings and my multiplicities gasp. “There has to be something you can do!” they shout.

The Coauthors shrug. My multiplicities look for ways to escape. The Beautiful Beings flap their wings, and panic shimmers in the heavy air. Our shared pulse is racing.

There’s a crash and then silence.

“I can’t breathe,” one of the Beings whispers.

My body remembers fainting when giving blood: the shrinking of my visual field, the removal of the tangible, the fight to fill my lungs.

We surround the Being. It’s a bird with a broken neck. The Glass it crashed into was not visible, but it was real. Is this the truth I asked for? The harsh realities of cause and effect?

“Where will you go now that you’ve shattered?” we asked the Being. Her body is disintegrating, her wings no longer discernable.

“Home,” the Being said. “Supper at six. See you then.”

Go Gently

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments

The world is filled with natural stompers. This is not destination dependent. No matter where the stompers think they’re going, their determined stride sends shock waves up their legs and into their surroundings. I happen to know that it’s possible to override the habitual stomp and consciously place one foot in front of the other. But beware: The resulting quiet can be unnerving. The rush to nowhere is noisy but comforting.

And why take the risk of treading lightly anyway? The Rain falls on the just and the unjust, the stompers and the dawdlers, the mindful and the misguided. The Rain falls without resistance or judgment. It clears the air for both rich and poor. On the upturned faces of lovers, the Rain falls with joy.

A beloved poet once insisted we should rage against the dying of the light, but I say to myself don’t hide from the darkening sky. Seek out the eye of the storm and walk upright in your bones, bold and welcoming. But don’t stomp. Go gently. Go with such grace that even your precariously stacked stones will start to sing, and the dry, angular roots you’ve gathered will dance like nymphs around the open tombs.

But I’m never sure of the way. There are so many trails and byways, so many routes home. I tell myself there’s no harm in wandering and no singular way to be redeemed.

But the Rain begs to differ. Surrender, she whispers. Break. Fall apart, tender. If you still have yarn or wire, you can knit yourself back together for a spell. But remember, you have gills and wings. You are the blind man tapping, the enthroned queen, and the missed opportunity. You are your own final act. You are the drunk driving victim, and you were driving the car.

I cannot accept that, I say to the Rain.

Oh, but you can, the Rain murmurs as she slides down the sides of my soul.

I admit that there are times I’m tempted to march out there and shake my fist at the distant thunder, but my boots would surely slip on the slick surfaces and even these well-formed bones would snap.

There is a certain hosanna available to those who fold their umbrellas and accept whatever comes. The relentless downpour will baptize everyone to the point of drowning, but as the flood recedes, that which remains will be a sunlit robin patiently awaiting a worm.