December 51st, 2020

Last night, energized by the inauguration, and finally giving in to the grief of the last four years, I wrote this poem. It’s incomplete, messy—much as these years have been. I’m placing it here in encouragement of letting hope free.

December 51st, 2020

That thing you are feeling

Is called hope

It’s been hiding there all along

Just below your heart, right below your liver,

next to your bile ducts; give in

Today, to all the tiredness

that seeps from all you have had to do:

Hiding hope away

(Keeping it safe from being slayed)

Turning your back on others in need

(Hoarding it because it’s scarce, this hope)

Learning to hate

(Defending it from those of other creeds and beliefs)

After all,

hope is a self-authored delusion; or a wistful

Dream only for the naive; and because

We have real work to do

Vilifying

Calling out the enemy

Hating in hope’s name

(Saving ourselves, from, well,

ourselves

We have been afraid to feel it)

Because losing it again would be torment

This day — yes, this day — told us something else

Hiding dormant all along

It’s been waiting for us—friend and foe

After all, hope like history, is not written for us

But by us

Open up your calendar

Open to this new year

Peel back the vitriol, and despair, and cursed words

that have gotten tangled up in your love

And let hope out from the imprisoning place

In which you’ve hid it

It’s strong enough to hold us all

Even the darkest seasons get lighter each day

As we approach Spring