Daily Connector | Wait | Becca Lachman

If ever there was a time asking for more psalms to be written, I believe it's now. I share one of mine with you, both because some of the lines hold fresh meaning in our world today, and in the hopes it might help or inspire you in some small way today.

~Becca Lachman

p.s.-- Listen to past CMC attendee and poet Brad Aaron Modlin read the poem:  https://drive.google.com/file/d/140S7ClCW0ESlNk1QK7zOtPUJogXYZ5gF/view


            -after Psalm 27

I have seen things shine. Most days, this is enough:
            my escape route
more grace than gravel. Every stop-motion memory
of failure stocked in my body like grain.
            I am the harvest’s vessel, full and waiting
for a match
to find fire where I stand, the whole mess
blitzing down. The heavens want me
            empty now. I open
my mouth and sing.     

Mama said Don’t as many times
   as she could. But my shield, in the end,
is gravity, the faith root not yet
weeded out.

Since childhood, it’s been the same landlord
leaving me notes on the kitchen table he built
    into the hard wood floor. This will someday be yours,
he signs at the bottom. “This” is all
I’ve ever wanted—to stop
            being homesick,
to cry at the beautiful
            God looking out of a stranger, make my life
            from something sung
out of joy, not out of training.

There are deer in the gardens
again. And someone’s name
            I don’t recognize
all over the mail and magazines.

The landlord was once out of town
            for weeks. I asked for different light
bulbs. He brought
me lamps instead. I think it’s him

who throws the fuse, switches off
            the news when I’ve been listening
for hours. Who needs that rabble,

            anyway? I do. I just want the headlines
to be different. Me too, he nods. Me too.

(from Other Acreage, Gold Wake Press, 2015)