Glory be to the changeable
wretch I am condemned to dance
within. Spirits thumb
a ride surging synapse and hurling
ourselves in directionless tangles.
Joy is hard. Joy must.
I seek sepulchred
secret caves inside guts where
I keep on finding these prophetical holes
at this specific moment in time.
Nothing’s so special about me important enough
to hate. Is lack of hate joy?
Joy is knowing
you’ll never find out.
You’ll be busy existing
somewhere. I seek you. Joy is knowing you exist
somewhere is working out how to find you
how to know you when I get there
and from knowing all this how to love you.
How to love you? I love myself
holding place for you.
Joy is I dancing without I
crying or lying. I without my one name
that becomes their name when they use it
Joy is us. Joy amongst ourselves
yours and mine ours and us.
Joy is how we make each other
one another. Many and much joy.
I don’t want my own dreams anymore.
I want things more impossible
Molly Beale recently undertook a creative writing masters in poetry at the University of East Anglia and is now working on Public Menace, a poetry anthology and platform you can access here: www.publicmenacepoetry.com Find them on social media @mollygbeale