Poem after Meditating

I can sense you,

like a bottom-heavy baby bird 

senses her first flight.


You are there—

and every time I sit,

I can almost open your door,

to the vastness to which I may return.

But then the door—


and I am left with tiny explosions of thought

tingling the mind,

but not expanding

into everything/nothingness

as you do.


I know you,

but don’t.

I feel you,

but I can’t touch you.

My fingertips are greedy for your requisition.

You don’t recognize this language

and you sleep soundlessly.


I have a memory of your taste,

but my mouth is tinged with 

the flavor of burnt coffee.


I trust you—

when I am ready for you

I will open like a star jasmine.

A tiny white explosion of


when the stars and the heart and the spine 

are aligned.


Until then, I meet you

in theory.

A delicious promise

of nothingness

to overcome my own forgetting.

My own boxed self.


We will open each other’s boxes

and bloom each others lotuses.


And in this, our marriage, will be

forever giving birth to itself.


I can wait because I have no choice.

But I can also wait, 

because I choose you, 


who includes me

       in all that you are, and all that 

I am.


Zoë Dearborn1 Comment