The relationship wounds me.
Loving them winds around my minutes
like a prickly vine.
My bleeding alarms me.

My arms are open wide —
sinking beneath the surface,
still as a rock on the bottom,
watching my trouble float downstream.

When I go by their door again
I want to turn the knob and risk —
resenting their inattention,
terrified of their illness.

My hands are on my heart;
my arms embrace my torso —
cradling that poor child in me
who is feeling old, aching fear.

We will hold their hand
and accompany me and them,
and accept the longing
for security and trust.

Letting go and letting in
is the bellows of spiritual fire;
the breathing of prayer keeps me alive
as I face all my dying places.