I once wrote a poem
about a person
I had felt contentious toward.
This person, in a different form,
has now appeared next door.
A young woman
providing shelter
for another younger person.
The blood-curdling screaming.
As if I could witness eyeballs
shooting straight out of her head.
The boyfriend.
The slap.
The sound.
I crumple with compassion.
Too young to understand
consequences.
Ripple effects.
Damage.
Regret.
Shame.
In my old poem,
I had compared my adversary
to something stuck in my teeth.
I could not get it out.
Once I understood what it was —
a poppyseed —
I could dislodge it.
Once it floated free,
it could still be useful,
once digested.
This is often
how understanding arrives.
Has this teaching persisted now
for over twenty years of my life
simply to teach me tolerance?
Instead of complaining,
I can turn the diamond over
in my hand,
examining yet another facet.
Faced with the brick wall
of what cannot be altered,
surrender begins to seem
less like defeat
and more like sanity.