The cross isn't in us

Kelly O’Toole

I can hear 
the lions roaring, 
even through my earbuds 
that are turned up
all the way. Their voices sound 
more like a loud yawn 
than a call to fight, 
a slow, consuming yawn,
that stretches across the river 
to my path. I’m probably one 
of the only people today 
who dislikes podcasts,
but I’m listening to the words,
straining to not be distracted 
by what I see 
or my thoughts casting themselves 
even farther than the lions.

It’s good though, 
and it takes me back 
to eleven years ago
when I was fighting
to row nowhere. 
Looking back, 
I’m not even sure
I made any decisions. 
It felt like the river’s need
to rush or the lion’s need 
to be heard, 
to expel his weariness 
from his throat. 
Is that why kids are 
so loud?

There was effort,
of course, but eleven years ago seems 
like a dream. 
Now, sitting on the front steps 
watching three of my own sons 
plus one more, 
I am lost 
in and mourning what was.
The no effort it took, 
the endless minutes we had
that floated by so that I believed
they would always be gentle.

Gentleness comes as an afterthought 
today, and instead I hurl
my words at you,
pecking at you like 
the birds on the fig tree out back.
I’m halfway sorry 
and halfway scorned;
if there was a way back,
I’ve lost it.
I hope just for now,
though now has been a year
in the making. 

If I make the time 
that’s always gone 
appear, like the Dark tunnel doors 
that change reality, 
if I go to the therapist 
and stop crying at IKEA 
and in the mornings,
can I find my heart again?
It’s not just lost 
on you, if that’s any better.

The mountains were a nice distraction,
I found the cross
on a rock, 
but I have yet to find 
it in us. 

---