August 2001
Brush it off, regard it;
If you can spy your soul and find it wanting;
If you can finger the breaks in it
Gingerly, like treading an index finger on glass,
And if you bleed at the breaks,
The cracks, the jagged edge,
And the blood drops in tear-shaped blots,
You've caught yourself in truth.
...
And then the spirit-bleeding, like finger-bleeding
Is enough to seal the wound,
To mend and weld the soul
And tame it again,
To regard it in its purity and judge it so,
With clear eyes,
Eyes cleared by tears and blood and revelation.
You have become yourself again.
...
It's not the spliced soul that is you,
It's not the wounded, jagged one
That stings when you touch, like pain.
Nor is it the hand that bleeds
From tracing edge to edge.
It is the self that perseveres inside this,
IT is the self that conquers this,
It is the self that made you catch your soul
And mend it, end to end.
