Blessed Are the Poor in Spirit

Lizzie Joy (loveland) Nunemaker

I come back to it over and over again

Another person is crying on my couch

Admitting to despair

Like it’s some kind of secret this world is ruled by the ruler of hell

I went through life wondering why the jaguar-faced indifferent persons

That love in a meat-grinding way, affection in teaspoon servings

Why they often were so much more stable and useful and proper and well-dressed

The rest of us basket-cases seem downright feral

We love in monsoons, we drench the ground with our tears and our 

Windswept passions, we shake down the trees for all they’re good for and still want more

Our leg is blown off but we hobble over to staunch the bleeding on a hemorrhaging world

People like us, we shake our heads and our hearts and we turnover the contents of our pockets

To anyone that asks

Without later asking to show the receipts

People like us know we’re otherwise moth-eaten and doomed

People like us cry out for help and hear an answer

We are forever the arm reaching up to God, 

We are forever the arm being pulled up into heaven.

Blessed, blessed are the poor in spirit.