Dough

{To you know who,

wherever you are,

I hope

you keep on writing.

 - C}

 - Part 3 -

Dough

I saw God

    shoving pizza into her mouth,

    grease dripping

                             like a tear

                                       down her chin that she

                                       wiped with her backhand while

                                       racing crust number five to her lips

                                       without

                                       so much as a

breath.

Bread for

    breathing;

         dough

              rolled into a circle.

    Round and

              round and

                        round we go -

    a metaphor for her life.

Eat.

Work.

Hide.

I took God’s

    pizza lightly -

    a trivial pursuit,

                             a trivial tale

                                       spinning into mine...

                                       my own trivial pursuit.

                                       She

                                       takes a

breath.

Bread for

    breathing;

         dough

              rolled into a circle.

    Round and

              round and

                        round we go -

    a metaphor for her life.

Drink.

Bottle up.

Shame.

God spoke of

    pizza which

    Uncle OSAP paid for

    (so giving,

                   but not quite forgiving),

                                                      who taught

                                                      her how to

                                                      consume

                                                      with every

breath.

Bread for

    breathing;

         dough (the only type she knows)

              rolled into a circle.

    Round and

              round and

                        round we go -

    a metaphor for her life.

Swallow.

Shoot up.

Silence.

All God wanted

    was a simple story,

    but pizza was the metaphor

                                                  for her life -

                                                  the only one she shared,

                                                  unlike

                                                  her countless others,

                                                            rotting

                                                                      under the dough,

                                                                                pushing on her lungs,

                                                                                           gasping for a

breath.

I ask God

         if she feels healthy

                                   shoving pizza down her throat...

         She wants to write,

                                   but the only

                                                  story she can throw up is

                                                                 pizza:

                                                                                her life, her

                                                                                breath.

Bread for

    breathing;

         dough

              rolled into a circle.

    Round and

              round and

                        round we go -

    a metaphor for her life.

Look.

Pause.

Breathe.

Share.

Spinning Into Mine

{For Everyone,

You are worth listening to,

and you

are worth listening to 

everyone else.

 - C} 

 - Part 2 -

Spinning Into Mine

Round and

    round and

         round we go,

Cycle of non-existent-non-violence we sow

                                                         in hopes

                                                               that the globe

                                                                              keeps

spinning,

              and that we can

cycle round,

              and meet new

eyes

              of the divine

              wherever we go.

              Listen as we spin...

Spinning,

              spinning,

                             spinning,

round the

globe, the stories

spin

    like the yarn she

spins

    like the tale she

                             grins,

                                       as she speaks it with her smile, which

spirals through

cycles of non-existent-non-violence -

circles of walls and

rounds of shots and

spheres of influence who

spin tall tales that say her

    story and her grin

         don’t count.

Spinning,

              spinning,

                             spinning,

round the

ball of yarn, the stories

spin

    like the tales she

spins

    like the memories she

                             grins,

                                       as she speaks them with her smile, which

spirals through

Bedouin Woman on a Reserve in the Negev Desert, Israel. 
Weaving to hold onto traditions being lost
along with their rights.

cycles of non-existent-non-violence

round the generations

wrapped around

swirls of stories of loss from the

spheres of influence who

spin tall tales that say their

    stories and their weaving

         do

             not

                  exist.

Spinning,

              spinning,

                             spinning

                                           her story into mine.

    What I did not know;

                                       spin,

                                       weave,

                                       grin.

Round and

    round and

         round we go,

                        another piece of God,

                                                      I now know.