Poems by Patricia Keough Wilson
08
Missing Parts and Persons
Jagged, sharp-edged family circles, at least mine are.
Maybe, no likely, never whole once outside Eden’s gate.
Sometimes outstretched arms of welcome;
sometimes arms folded across the chest, closed, shut.
Suspicion, distrust, fear forms fists where hands once stretched to offer gifts.
Envy and lies turn to a casting out.
Judgment enlarges, diminishes circles; changes shapes to broken ovals.
Barred gates password protected defying entry of words or pleas
from those deemed unwelcome outsiders who once were insiders.
Who is in charge here? Who decides who is in the circle and who is not?
And the circles move in some shadowy, menacing, ominous, dance of danger.
Circles grow, change, mutate, migrate, open, close, grow spears and barbed wire on top.
While mothers weep until they become like deserts, no tears left to water hope.
Surrendering the longing for whole family circles, now only vague distorted memories of maybe.
Maybe the whole, healthy, loving circle is a myth, a generational myth of make believe;
Moments, of Christmas mornings, and camping trips, of laughter over funny stories,
of drying tears, and faded photographs in family albums of people never ever met.
Still God created that heart hunger for complete family circles,
members hand in hand, heart to heart, welcoming new members,
supporting each member no matter.
No matter the failures, the disappointments, the wounds, the betrayals, the broken trust.
Hearts love even in the worst of blasphemous acts. And hope and redemption
sing a forever song, a hymn of worship and praise to a perfect Father in Heaven
whose Son redeems and blesses and heals family circles of flawed members.
And one forever day makes each circle enlarged and combined
beyond imagination to God’s family circle.
