To meet a helicopter mind the only way
is let the rotors still, those deadly blades
whir you away, cut me
if I meet you in the air.
I’m not suggesting I don’t care.
This water is too deep; you’ll need
a forced landing where you will feel
small, if you feel at all.
Storytelling’s never gonna work.
Now you believe I’m acting like a jerk.
Stay grounded on this tiny islet
just ignore the urgent pilot’s
demand/the signal’s jammed
on replay: flee! get the hell away!
Be safe with me and breathe.
I’m holding space
allowing what emerges in the we.
Let the longing for belonging
guide you home. It’s not out there
in a psychiatric tome.
Here’s a clue:
It’s where I’m happening in you.
The painful past conditioning
you be polite the truth don’t say
be nice you’ll rue the day
your tongue slipped in company
you ran off grumpily, swatted and scorned.
Invited here, you can’t sit still.
Squirming through old agony.
And now you’re mad at me.
You’re dragging all the past
into our space. And ah, you’re pissed
when I don’t look
at each stained page of your book.
It’s so complex, I gently say,
when you complain and object
at my lack of respect. By the way,
that book is also written in me,
know it by rote,
could quote from memory
all the bad things that ever happened to me,
but that takes all of our energy.
So in this moment
–all that there is–
let’s just sit with who emerges
saluting the insurgents
in the hearts we join together
–shhh–there is no blame. Realize
this healing path is littered
with our shame.
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