Still, We Come
Reflections on Survival and Ordinary Grace
My brother is a stranger to me
until he is home again
jaw first, then the way
he stands against a wall
deciding.
π
I have loved men
the way drought loves rain
without grace,
without mercy,
without end.
π
There is a boy who finds
his own beauty
only late at night
only alone
only when no one
is keeping score.
π
That finding is everything.
π
You ask what we want.
I want to eat a meal
and say nothing to the table.
I want my mother's mouth
to form around my life
and stay.
π
We made words for ourselves
in the dark,
on scraps,
in code,
passed hand to hand
like water in a dry season.
π
We have buried so many
who only wanted
to grow old and difficult,
to embarrass their grandchildren,
to forget where they left
their keys.
π
That is the inheritance we carry.
Their interrupted ordinary.
π
Silence never protected anyone.
I know because I swallowed it
for years
and grew sick on the saving.
So I spoke.
To no one.
To myself first,
which is where
all true things begin.
π
And still, we come to this,
a man reaching for another man's face
on a street that has seen worse.
A body refusing
the only two choices given
and making a third.
A soul stepping forward
into its own true name.
π
This is the day.
This is survival so practiced
it starts to look like living.
And some days
it is.
About the Creator
Tim Carmichael
I am an Appalachian poet and cookbook author. I write about rural life, family, and the places I grew up around. My poetry and essays have appeared in Beautiful and Brutal Things, My latest book. Check it out on Amazon


Comments (2)
Very gorgeous & empowering!
Wonderful depth to this. My inner child is currently indulged in some surface play, maybe mapping out the underwater caves waiting to be spelunked.π