Debra Levy-Fritts, Origin Stories

“Hang onto my faith until yours comes back,” she said

I grew up thinking, in my one hand, nothingness, dust,
the other, everything, shining, a universe as glove, essentially, tho’
a speck, I mattered, source and figure, firm – a fine fettle formed.

But our lives aren’t so easy … it is not like that/ faith /no-faith /dust/ all
It is more how a scale, rises and falls, from confine
  a stretch that freedom will reveal, breath by breath
It’s the shadow of a twister overhead, a narrow escape    I carve

Emerge: the wonder of works

Admired, ever-present, the line of clarity, the voice that grows, muted
Details obscure my source, the fuel set afire by family    will never
Shift, just jive, in shadow. The camera-man lies,
and the Terror? Who in the hell knew?
Escape, really only a burial, an underground memory, and
Denial, a continuity that must, by design, mystify

A field, boundaryless, co-mingled, wide  —
young ones abandon even the idea of separate iteration
honey bees with the Queen to defend
never brook the gorge, fearing it will
crush, bound to the
vital organ, lest they die.

Funny. Now, I hang on so fiercely to love, stumble toward safety restored. Create a new heart unfolding…notes introduced, are found. Gathered up. This is all. In this other hand, everything.

Scoring aloud present lines, scales, a music, forgiving, realized:

Why not just take a chance, sustaining? There is not a surfeit of time.
Faith transforms, is mine.
Render. Outrun, shining, old tumbleweed, whirlwind.

The field can exist, exit defined, steadied
Alone, tho’

it won’t be empty for long.

Debra Levy-Fritts is a mother, community leader, and volunteer.