Brialee Turner

I’m sitting in a holy arena,
Where people bring their heaviest
Stories to fight the battles
Of the universe.

They are all wrapped up as gifts,
Presented to me.

Some look me in the eyes and
Hand me a light bag
Stuffed with tissue paper
And tied with velvet bows.
They wonder if they make their
Bleeding wounds look and
Feel like cotton candy,
I will receive them with a light handed
Touch.

Others avoid eye contact, and when they
Are prompted they are ashamed to hand over
A thin grocery bag that is so
Transparent that I can already tell
What the object is,
Even without the meeting of our souls.
The room is quiet as I accept the gift
But the crinkling of the bag shatters like the
Silence of a firework.
They don’t want the gift,
But they hate that I have it now too.

Still some deny that they carry anything
At all, and don’t realize that
They haven’t wrapped their gift
Or that they even possess something of
Value that I would be grateful to hold,
Even for an hour.
It’s like a scavenger hunt for them to
Locate the lost and seemingly fleeting
Present.
Sometimes they go home and search for something to bring back,
Not realizing that they are the gift
In and of themselves.

I’m sitting in a holy arena,
Where people bring their heaviest
Stories to fight the battles
Of the universe.