The Risk

The Risk

Birdie Rodriguez

My son was born as a turn of the century metropolis—
licorice nights lit up by his pulse and cries of hunger
One could never know the interior of every room in his pre-war
brownstones, but one could always find the way there—
his was a grid city—come what may

Come what may—his diagnosis was the brig—stoic, solitary
in breakneck winds and whitecaps—it was the default
and it beat on, always in the wrong place at the wrong time,
like the heart beating in the gums, or the head, in hands or the neck
or the ears, anywhere, except where it should be, isolated in the chest

Isolated—in the chest—was dreadful in the head
Who was this quiet prince—and where was he—
what was this desolation, but a ghost at the helm
The horizon carried a port with perpendicular streets and hope—
not to be seen or understood but known

And hope—not to be seen or understood but known
seeped itself into the post-storm sepia glow, like a vintage
Kodachrome photo—a strange reachable sun assumed an elderly
wisdom—the kind missed with the passing of a grandmother
Fr. Mike says, The only place one can be safe from the risk of love, is hell

The risk of love is hell—it is seasickness—it is a hill like a skull—
the pierced side of the lifeless body—holy Saturday of darkness—
a descent into hell for those who wait with a hope not to be seen
or understood but known to be isolated in the chest—the only place
one can be safe from the risk of love, is hell—so take the risk, (take the risk!)

always take the risk

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Birdie Rodriguez
Folk Artist & Poet

Birdie is an accomplished folk artist and an emerging poet. She has a passion for storytelling, and is inspired by history, theology, nature and family. She is an alumna of The American Musical and Dramatic Academy New York City, and currently lives on the Coastal Plains of North Carolina with her husband and three children.

Photography by Aiden Murphy