No Exit
for Francis Smith

There is in all visible things an invisible fecundity,
a dimmed light, a meek namelessness, a hidden wholeness.
Thomas Merton, Hagia Sophia

somewhere in the middle
of all we exchange

laughing and chatting
on Sunday afternoon

having dropped by
offering Sunday dinner

she’d go from worried looks
fatigue upon her face
to too pretty for words

as she relates one tale or another
or talks about the house
she aspires to own

one trial or challenge or another
overcome with limited resources

upon her face, the triumphs
miracles of dollars stretched
along with intellect

how she was able to charm her way
into the heart of the city
of the system

I’d see why
she was irresistible initially
irresistible when
she chooses to be

within her as well
and so very evident

that inexhaustible sweetness
fountain of action, of joy
of which Merton wrote

like flowers at dawn,
millions upon millions of them

their petals opening
dew covering
first morning of creation

this the cup I entered once
long ago

and ever since it’s been
so very difficult to exit

in spite of the elements of her

times with her when I could spit
could shit

as filled with disgust as this


© Obediah Michael smith, 2008
8:27 p.m. 10.03.08