Read Poetry: AT THE PARK, by Ariel Westberg

A low-slung mist

stultifies the LA sunscape, setting the stage to play

the part of a rainforest’s cupola.

But rain doesn’t come

even though I am ready.

Boots and sweater, and a nameless

heartache to accompany

my attire,

hibernation

at times suits me,

but these days, these years,

I can ill-afford the luxury

of wallowing, of pining, of yearning.

Today, through the trenches of a familar

yet unknown abyss,

I cradle myself,

filled with a boundless love,

as intricate and vast

as the stuff of dreams.

A runner, springy and supine,

passes as I sit.

I feel catatonic but my soul,

a burbling brook, joyously knows

the routes of God.

Knows the loving hands that hold me

like a child holds a love-worn doll,

perfectly beautiful to eyes

that have seen all its years,

limbs gone missing,

hair brushed out of its head,

a marble eye rolled down a drain,

smudges that have turned to stains

forever,

I am loved that way.

– Ariel Westberg