My Love is a Tiptoe

My sorrow is a doll 

unstitched, or the soft-worn bear 

whose button eye hangs, or threaded smile has fallen unattached 

at the corner.

My compassion is a needle and thread; 

love, looping through
with time and attention.

My resentment is an email 
never sent, but held in draft. 
collected with others like it (but different). Piled like sand castles waiting 
for the waves to round them down, and 
erase them back into flatness. 

My anger is the back pew of a small church, 
a tight throat and careful eyes that watch blood and wafer pass between the hands 
of people more forgiving than I.

My love is a tiptoe 
in a sleeping house, and whispers of 
     please stay
into the ears of the ones who are dreaming.