A Poem About Fabric

in a sea of worn brown fabric chairs

Last week, Melanie Brandt asked me if I’ve ever tried writing fiction. I haven’t, at least not since middle school.

“What about poetry?”

Thank you, Mel, for pushing me to try something new.

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Fabric

“You can’t fabricate that” she said

        The three of us, in a sea of worn brown fabric chairs

        alone in a room meant for thousands

        meant for One


We are a species of fabricators

        of transformers

                of Something-Into-Somethingers

        We capture the sun and wind to light our cities

                to compete with the stars at the horizon’s edge

        We sift through the dirt and rubble of the earth

                to send probes that run circles around Jupiter

        We encapsulate chemicals in sugar and plastic

                to cure our hunger and kill our demons

        We mold the sand of the shores into silicon

                to make machines that think for us

We can’t fabricate that?


She’s right

        We can’t fabricate that

        We are alchemists, Something-Into-Somethingers

                of lead into gold

                of sand into thoughts

                of wind into light

        We are not divine, not Nothing-Into-Somethingers

                of nothing into gold

                of nothing into thoughts

                of nothing into light

She’s right

        In the sea of worn brown fabric chairs

        In the room meant for One

We can’t fabricate that. 


That

        of surrender

        of life-change

        of transforming 

                Nothing

                Into 

                Something


He is an ex nihilo fabricator

        a numinous transformer

                a Nothing-Into-Somethinger

        I had a God-sized hole in my chest

                my heart was leaking, sinking, bleeding out

                        lurching towards Death

        a God-sized hole

                in which I built castles and strongholds 

                        out of pain and fear 

                        out of shame of my nothingness

                to host and protect my depravity

                        to hide it

                        to hide 

                                my Nothingness

We all have a God-sized hole in our chest


But He stormed the castle, danced on the ramparts

        planted a flag in the stronghold

                smiling

        I needed saving

                and He smiled

He has conquered Nothingness and given us Something

Himself


I do not want 

        your money

        your attention

        your admiration

But 

        I want 

                Him 

                        for 

                                you

I cannot transform your nothingness 

        I am not a Nothing-Into-Somethinger

        I can only ask you questions about your Nothing

                sit beside you 

                run across chairs to pray for you

                play 88 keys to worship with you

        I cannot fabricate anything out of Nothing

Nobody can


But your surrender of your Nothing?

        to be transformed into Something

                to be radically and forever changed

                        into Something’s fabric

        to clutch at your chest, the God-sized hole 

                shuddering at the flag in the center of the stronghold

                        Something is smiling


You can’t fabricate that

        in the sea of worn brown fabric chairs

                meant for thousands

You, meant for One.

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