After the Meal

Ah, those webs,
so thin, so weak,
barely there, seen only when the light
is just right,

living best in darkness,
those tiny contradictions
of softness and imprisoning strength:
the need, always the need

for strength, always; and for
vulnerability as long as it is
convenient and impeccably
timed,

all the pieces in place, like
a puzzle that has no place
for a piece missing,

where one must be perfection,
or else accused of honest weakness, or worse,
tossed to the waste bin

like a dead fish,
smelly, and wildly inappropriate
after the meal.

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I should never write poetry after reading. I had just finished a chapter in the brilliant and brave Brene Brown’s book “Daring Greatly“, about shame in men and women, and how we experience it differently, when I wrote this.

The photograph was taken in the basement of the woman I love as we unloaded a truckload of kindling wood for her wood stove this weekend. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom