Even You, Even Me, Even the World

A poetry collection about giving ourselves permission.

Welcome to the new “home” for my poetry! I’m really looking forward to using this space to connect with readers, allow a slower pace for reading and consideration, and open up more dialogue. It means so much to me that you’ve chosen to be a part of this space.

This collection contains four poems exploring what it means to give ourselves permission in all its forms. 

01 - permission to take up space 

02 - permission to level the playing field of being human 

03 - permission to feel pain 

04 - permission to hold our opinions lightly and be at peace with uncertainty

Thanks for reading, friends!

Sorry, Not Sorry

What is the source of that river, 
that constant stream of sorries
spilling from pursed lips?

Who wrote that remorseful script,
taught us to breathe out apologies 
like some pleasing prayer?

When did you and I learn
to shut ourselves in the confessional,
to seek some perpetual penance, 
to believe that this is what makes 
a girl Good? 

It is possible to lie prostrate for so long
you become one with the very ground;
It is possible to shrink so much
you cannot even be found.

Sorry for speaking my mind,
for all my hushed swear words,
for the side of brash opinions I serve next to your casserole,
for filling my plate with my own bottomless hunger,
for growing up when all you ever asked was that I stay small,
for dancing on the graves of the things I have buried,
for peeling back everything, exposing all the nerves,
the bones, the marrow.

Sorry for breathing, 
sorry for existing,
sorry for taking up space.

One day when I was through with it all
I picked myself up off the floor,
marched down the wrong side of the street,
refused to relinquish the sidewalk
when the man and his dog approached. 

I smiled. I stomped firmly through the puddles.
I did not apologize.

Better yet—
I breathed, 
I existed,
I took up all the space I needed,

even more. 

---

---

In The World, Not Of It

She is spitting urgent words 
but I have stopped listening—
something about agenda,
something about fear and danger 
and protection and retribution and God,

something about being in the world, not of it,
which is one way to sound kind and noble
while portioning humanity like a pie. 

My own words sit hot on my tongue:
we all find what we're looking for.

Factions and ideologies, 
a maniacal, conspiratorial 
world, some dark shadow 
around every corner, some hollow 
scarcity slung low in our bellies, 

or a world where the infant is 
pulled from the rubble wailing and alive,
where the mother twice our age holds our baby
on her own hip for the pure joy of it,
where you and I hide seeds in the dirt and trust 
they will one day feed us with abundance.

Still, if it is important for you 
to be a gatekeeper more than anything else, 
start with yourself. 

After all, who is protecting 
your children from you?
Who is protecting 
my children from me? 

Who is keeping them from
marinating in your quiet fear, 
from taking in my anxiety 
through osmosis?

Who is shielding their eyes
from your white knuckled fingers 
holding fast to satisfying answers,
from my own angry aching, 
from the days I cry in my spaghetti? 

Yes, the world is large 
and there are many things to be afraid of,
chief among them our own selves.

But let us not forget 
the gentle eyes of the man 
who serves us our Saturday coffee,

or the cardinals in the brush 
who do not go hungry 
because of our tenderness,

or humankind being held 
in the hammock of the universe 
by simple, dependable lights—
the sun and the moon and the stars,
even you, even me,

even the world. 

---

The Envelope

She has sliced her finger 
on an envelope's sharp edge
and what I am saying to her 
over the volume of her crying
is that this is part of being human
that these things happen and 
we mustn't make such a raucous 
over a paper cut, that soon
she will grow up into a woman who
does not even wince at such things
so accustomed she will be to
the occasional pain of living. 

I, too, have injured myself
on some sharp edge,
perhaps my own barbed wire ribcage,
and what the woman is saying to me
over the loud silence of the 
things I am not saying 
is that this is part of being human
that these things happen and
we must allow ourselves to feel 
the occasional pain of living.

How funny—
all this time I believed
coming of age demanded
leaving the child behind,
yet here I am groping my way 
back to her,

remembering what it is 
to open my mouth,
to let out the wail when it rises,
a slick throb in my throat. 

---

Advice for my Daughters

At least once in your life, 
stagger at the edge of the canyon,
let your breath catch on the realization 
that the world is boundless, 
and you exist—

neither is a small miracle.

Start and end your day by remembering
how entire kingdoms have been unearthed 
from the ground on which you stand, 
how even now the universe is a flower unfurling, 
how the stars themselves witnessed the sun’s birth,
how every tree holds mysteries in its rings and 
a single sliver of light contains every imaginable color.

Considering the wide expanse of everything, 
hold your opinions lightly, 
your certainties even more so.

You and I are mistaken about so many things.

Listen politely to the people who tell you 
that God is some ancient patriarch
up on the throne
picking His teeth and arching His brow
at how you pace the earth. 

Then tell them what you know: 

How He hides His smile behind His hand,
shakes His head
at what each of us believe of Him,
even as He turns to the angels and says, 

I am not like that at all. 

---

Thank you, friends, for taking the time to read my words. I hope they left you with some small hope, some “me too” moment, or some question you hadn’t considered. I’d love to hear what’s sticking with you.

Here’s to giving yourself permission.

xo,

Krista

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Photos by: Mathilde Langevin on Unsplash, Caleb Woods on Unsplash, Tom Carnegie on Unsplash, Elena Joland on Unsplash, and Alexander Andrews on Unsplash

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