A Course in Miracles
Forgive yourself the fire you set in your trashcan
And the lemons you stole from the tree in the churchyard.
Forgive yourself what money you spent
On drugs. Forgive yourself the days that soured
Before you had a chance to open them up.
Forgive yourself the melon liqueur
You poured hastily into the grass on the side
Of the highway, and the animal you left for dead.
Forgive yourself the ages of dwelling, the ages
Of eating only what’s meant to make you thirsty.
Forgive yourself the fires you didn’t even try
To put out in time. Forgive yourself the ghosts
That follow you around like skinny shelter cats,
And the sugar water you feed them
And the little velvet box you place them in
Before you get into bed each night so that they’ll stay.
And the lemons you stole from the tree in the churchyard.
Forgive yourself what money you spent
On drugs. Forgive yourself the days that soured
Before you had a chance to open them up.
Forgive yourself the melon liqueur
You poured hastily into the grass on the side
Of the highway, and the animal you left for dead.
Forgive yourself the ages of dwelling, the ages
Of eating only what’s meant to make you thirsty.
Forgive yourself the fires you didn’t even try
To put out in time. Forgive yourself the ghosts
That follow you around like skinny shelter cats,
And the sugar water you feed them
And the little velvet box you place them in
Before you get into bed each night so that they’ll stay.
This poem originally appeared in Tin House #60 and has been reprinted with permission of the author. Meg Freitag was born in Maine and now lives in Austin, Texas, where she is a James A. Michener fellow.
