A poem by Jenna Blackwell
WITHOUT
Heater on, tea in hand,
Curtains just ajar.
Pen at the ready,
I sit, I watch, I wait for you.
The trees, like fits of rage on a drug-induced night,
Bend every direction in the gusty wind.
They are but shadows against the dark sky,
Mere blurs, not close to human.
The sky has been crying all night,
The fields are flooded in its tears.
My eyes on this city prompts my heart,
As a ten-tonne truck sits on my chest.
People. It's always people.
Without homes, without safety,
Without warmth, without family.
Without weighs on my chest.
Does without have a name?
We hide them away, buried in darkness.
We wish someone else would jump in the muck
And bring them to the light.
My heart rages at injustice.
But my outward eyes turn in on me
And the truck reminds me of its weight.
What am I doing?
Comfy, warm, safe, peacefully alone
I too have flooded tears, but not over this.
"Disconnect!" my mind screams
But I refuse to let this be another too hard basket
I don't want to sit in comfort,
Disconnected from those without.
I don't want to say "I'm yours, God,"
And not break for what breaks you.
I love comfort, but I don't want to live it
If it's outside of your reign.
I don't want to be another Sunday-goer
Who isn't transformed by you.
I want people to know your goodness,
I want lives to be transformed.
I want connection, not disconnection.
I want... to be without?
That's too scary to say aloud,
I wrestle with the discomfort.
But they say to live is to die.
To die to self is to live for you.
Without, they cry.
Without, I surrender.
Jenna Blackwell © 2021
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Aug 12, 2021
