Longing
I.
I was born in fear, my mother’s womb
churning terror before a breath.
In that barren region apples fell like stones,
nothing ripe nor sweet for consolation.
I find danger easily now —
in your smile,
in the yet unset sun,
in the rose that promises
to die too soon.
“Yet the bird doesn’t fly from conviction, its beating wings fast against a hungry sky”
II.
I am the soul of the diaspora,
my heart rich in division.
As the multicolored flame leaps far
from its burning core,
I too seek a wider field of light.
Get Susan Irene Asher’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
Leaving the harsh home for a gentler
region not forthcoming,
roaming through centuries of
anguished yearning,
desperate acts come to look like will,
the bitter ache of sorrow, courage.
Yet the bird doesn’t fly from conviction,
its beating wings fast against a hungry sky.
Only I seek the sweet journey to an
imagined land,
further and further from the fragile source,
’til the knot tightens,
and the end and the beginning become one.
III.
There is no charity in loving,
only the clear harsh sound of truth earned.
Life was simpler once —
before the time of brokenness —
when birds still darkened the verdant earth
and springs were not yet underground.
Knowledge requires more now —
but nothing new.
Only the courage to stand
at the edge of a lean universe —
and peer in.
