you
the invisible
who-ness
is present, bidden or
not bidden, so
i admit to feeling
(you prefer
lower case i’m guessing?
i do)
your nearness,
much more
than God – is that your father:
enormous, cliff-
like, unknowable shore line
everywhere and nowhere
or did i make him up? – and
you remain unseen yet noticeable
and quiet, as a young
girl, painfully shy
supine?
and here:
are you the swing? are you the hush?
are you the dusk
light, and why is your name such
a problem? i admit to feeling un-
comfortable with it
in public,
aloud
i don’t mind thinking it
je suis is as close as i get
why do you keep
showing up discernibly concealed?
what did you learn as a human? and
what do you continue to learn as a
God-formerly-human-yet-still-human-but-waiting-
for-something-i-don’t-understand-to-happen?
you are
the missing
person who
i look for
everywhere
in a stadium
crowd, far off,
other side of field
eye contact
we locate each
other, impossible
to talk, we wave,
sort of, our
gaze in a
pause
held in that
small holiness
just seeing you is
seeing me
you are the being in
a person without a
body, right? though in a
body, is that it?
that certain near-thing
we know is distinct
and unique
in me
here
like being in your own car, your own pew,
your own bed
how am i
doing so
far
stop me if
i’m going
to
fast
poem by chris woodhull / photograph by kumiko ishigaki
Monks & Mannequins 