it must be true

it has to be true.

in my disbelief

i am cornered

into believing.

between this wall

and that field of flowers

are the demons

the dogs and the monsters and the Overwhelm

the parents and the teachers and the administrators

the older kids who had hips and breasts and waists

(I, meanwhile, was a rather tall lumpy orange)

the girls who turned their backs

the men who could not be reached, could not be touched

the smell of alcohol on his breath

the sound of the refrigerator door opening

the poisonous sweet-sticky honey

of a home i still struggle to leave behind

an ocean and a continent away from here.

between me and that field of flowers

bars cold and rigid

the elephant who needs no chain as an adult

for it does not know it is no longer a child.

Memory and neuronic pathways that bind.

between this corner and that field of flowers

i have seen

a drunk man fall

into Fellowship

and Recovery.

I saw him crawl

and learn to walk

then to break the chain

and give it good burial

and wade his way

through those demons

and now he sits

across from me

in that field of flowers, smiling.

it has to be true

i in my disbelief

thrust against this wall

see a field of flowers

i, poor as i am,

am not as poor as that drunk fallen beaten vomitting man

who is now laughing

so even i

even i

even i

there must be One

Big Enough

to carry

even one such as I

Through

to that field of flowers

oh to feel the spring sunshine

in that field of flowers.

It has to be true.