No one’s ever freed anything
by hating it.
No one’s ever healed anything
by beating it.
You kicked what was down,
demanding it get up—
you tucked the flower in a closet, then asked it:
“why haven’t you grown?”
You were struck so much,
you flinched at loving hands.
If you’re empty long enough,
drinking in the Sun
will turn your stomach.
Maybe part of healing
is learning to tolerate the medicine.
Maybe poison
is an acquired taste
that needs to be forgotten.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 