Enough

by C.R. McCormmach

You are here enough

to come into it

to live enough to dream in it

in the way things got made of it

but for you not enough of it

to be able to give of it

nor desire, nor fakery

is ever enough of it.

And in this you are free

to lose the name of it

desire everything else but it,

sleep in lust to the beast

hidden dark inside of it,

the one you try to please

give yourself away to please,

to hide and waste

what matters most to please,

to be compliant in order to please,

your body narrow to please,

on your hands and knees to please

Please.  “Please father,” you cry out

but you do not, not then,

or again, or now, please.

“Please help me,” you wail

knees down in the dark

on an empty plain

when only an owl cries out

and the moon is hidden

and the dew lifts your heart

away from you.  “Please,”

you whisper to horizons

lost to you and the sun rises over you

and a child cries out for you, is it you?

Then someone else is leaving you

and all you can feel is gratitude

they have gone away from you.

Horses in mourning have come to you

and what you are you find in them

so the child grows wise outside of you

ands shows the way for you

to be whole again

and a voice you find

to trust is saying again,

“this is it, not that, this is it,

it is: love you see.”

And in truth you are and behold in it

and in it, in truth you are held in it

just long enough to remain in it

in it, of it, because and enough of it.


C. R. McCormmach resides in Eugene, Or. and is a poet.  Sometimes she writes stories about horses or crones.  She converses with birds.

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