“When you are between your old comfort zone and any possible new answer … the sacred space where the old world is able to fall apart, and a bigger world is revealed …” — Richard Rohr
It’s Sarah and Abraham, every dragging year
between the promise and the child.
It’s Israelites at the foot of the mountain
waiting for Moses’ return.
Leaving Eden, leaving Egypt;
Isaac bound upon the altar.
Joseph barred by prison doors,
Jonah crushed by whale ribs,
Hagar in the wilderness, withering.
Empty stomachs, hands, nets.
Every year hobbling through the desert;
every night water pummeled the ark.
Mary and Martha at the grave of their brother;
disciples hidden in a locked room;
stone in the mouth of the tomb.
It’s the layover, the stoplight,
the waiting room. The era between tests
and results. The dark womb
of sky before the dawn. The interlude
between chorus and verse, the space
between two bodies. The inhale
of each wave before
it overtakes the shore.
The time between blossom
and berry, between a star’s birth
and visible light.
It’s a dial tone, then ringing, before
there’s an answer. It’s standing at
the knocked door, waiting
for it to open.