At Least I Know That I Live

Behind every tragedy
is a silent place hidden
from view,
a silent spring waiting to bubble
to the surface
to wash the pain away.

How to find it?
Let the grief break
your dam.
Don’t resist gravity.
Flow to the low places, loathed by
humankind, until the walls that
conceal your joy are eroded and cracked
from within.

When the wall breaks, you will see
that inside there has been a garden full
of treasures and gems, waiting all this time.

And how else could it be?
The effluent and detritus go down
into the earth, and come back as green
crops for hungry children. The broken
fragments of your heart tossed in a circle
and held with love become
a mosaic.

How else can I say it? What more can I
do to remind myself? I say this to myself:
Accept, accept, accept. Walk forward
naked, and when the brambles scrape my skin, I say, “At least I know that I live.”

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