Jennifer Stuart
Just the Air
it was always something like a church inside
my pocket
for years and years and years
I could tell myself
the same prayer
that little burning shelter gave me
all the power I needed to
talk to strangers
or get away from them
the doors of some churches
close forever
burn to the ground
or maybe just kick you out
it feels like that
sometimes
now
I pull and pull, waiting and waiting for
the feeling of peace to catch and
hold me in sanity but
it feels like
regret building
glass in my throat
hunger that won’t move
no matter how many I smoke
the sacred space that was so easy
to carry around
has split
into the sacredness,
and the cigarette.
and the cigarette has turned
from a prayer in my pocket
an answer to any question
a burst of chosen sanity
into just
a cigarette
the minute that I set free
the peace I thought
was built into them
I can see that it’s
abundant
in the empty, fresh air
it’s thriving in the choice to take
a few minutes to think
on the chilly stone steps surrounded
by fireflies.
without needing an excuse
I see
I can choose
to talk to people
clustered outside of the jazz show
or leave a crowded room
when too many people
have tried to touch my hair.
with my pockets
empty
of those necessary little treasures
lighter, papers, tobacco, little cotton filters
I can walk faster
through the scenes of any prayer
I ever made
and into new ones
with
just the air
in my lungs
the sacredness
finally in
her proper place.
Just the Air
it was always something like a church inside
my pocket
for years and years and years
I could tell myself
the same prayer
that little burning shelter gave me
all the power I needed to
talk to strangers
or get away from them
the doors of some churches
close forever
burn to the ground
or maybe just kick you out
it feels like that
sometimes
now
I pull and pull, waiting and waiting for
the feeling of peace to catch and
hold me in sanity but
it feels like
regret building
glass in my throat
hunger that won’t move
no matter how many I smoke
the sacred space that was so easy
to carry around
has split
into the sacredness,
and the cigarette.
and the cigarette has turned
from a prayer in my pocket
an answer to any question
a burst of chosen sanity
into just
a cigarette
the minute that I set free
the peace I thought
was built into them
I can see that it’s
abundant
in the empty, fresh air
it’s thriving in the choice to take
a few minutes to think
on the chilly stone steps surrounded
by fireflies.
without needing an excuse
I see
I can choose
to talk to people
clustered outside of the jazz show
or leave a crowded room
when too many people
have tried to touch my hair.
with my pockets
empty
of those necessary little treasures
lighter, papers, tobacco, little cotton filters
I can walk faster
through the scenes of any prayer
I ever made
and into new ones
with
just the air
in my lungs
the sacredness
finally in
her proper place.
Jennifer Stuart is a writer, massage therapist, musician, and jewelry maker. She lives in a house full of plants, friends, and glorious messes of art supplies in the hills of Western Massachusetts. She’s been crafting words into songs for years, and is now infatuated with poetry.