pain is not meant to be secret

empty hands; surrender; trust; weakness; worship

pain is not meant to be secret
but shared like a meal
before death’s door,

nor is it meant 
to be whispered in secret
like the silence of a whore.

but my pain
has become 
an open conversation

a host with whom i walk 
into the expanse of my soul,
and traipse through fields of memories
some dry as sand and others
fertile, rich as a whole forest floor;

and i haven’t wanted to admit how
the exhortations of old voices
taught me pain and his accompaniment 
are then and now sideways friends,

strange, brutal companions
who make war for our hearts,
endure scourging after scourging with us

as our knees buckle
it is pain that cleans the mind,

as our bones ache
it’s longing that binds us up,

when our hearts throb
and threaten to burst
as the worst things imagined
force themselves into action
it isn’t only our reason, our logic, 
our largesse that calms us down,
it is the violent silence
of not-ever-knowing
what is next,
never knowing 
and always knowing 
you will never ever know 
what threatens you 
just around the corner,
as knees tremble
and bones ache
and silence calls us 
to the one thing that’s 
too precious for us 
to pry open;
our empty
hands.