If you ever really wanted to know
I am not the portrait drawn of me.
the voiceless mouth, the flawless skin;
the shades of red in my lips are not so noticeable
unless I’ve been in the throws of some mad conversation.
I am not the apple-picker.
I do not force you to eat forbidden fruit;
my sins are my own.
And my legs; mine to walk halfway
between worlds like the clockwork of planets
following invisible threads.
My hands, mine to break the air
with gunshot notes
from the hammered voice of an old piano.
I am, however, every teacher
who has brought me closer
to the Invisible College.
I am every line of every book
that changed my molten core.
I am a gift of another’s self-sacrifice and time;
I am the pain of their sleepless nights,
their worried hearts, their noble concern.
I am the byproduct of their compassion, and their madness.
Compassion to care more for the world
than for their own comfort, or security;
madness to believe the world
might offer something in return.
For the world
looks at madness
like a tumor to be removed.
I am not the bringer of light to dark places,
but the broken clay jar
with its mildewed scrolls
placed hesitantly inside of me.
In compassion,
I honor their names.
In madness,
I offer my own.
