Pulse: a poem

Remembering the Orlando Pulse NightClub Shooting

This week I am taking a break from writing about my Becoming Board and Things I Used To Do Again. Today marks 8 years since the shooting at the Orlando Pulse Nightclub. I want to remember those whose lives were lost and taken from us. I want to lift up those who survived and still carry the scars of that night. I want to honor the people who came to hold the grieving and the hurting and who continue to be arms of courage, strength, and love in a world where violence is common occurrence, especially for queer lives and spaces.

The best way I know how to remember, lift up, and honor is with words. And so I share a poem called Pulse. This poem is the first in my recently published book Unraveling: Coming Out and Back Together. It was written just after the shooting, at a time when I was beginning to come out as lesbian and making important decisions about my future.

May we never forget the 49 people killed. You can read their names and some of their stories here.

Read the poem and/or listen to me read it to you below.

Pulse
©Rebecca Wilson

when I was little I could never find my pulse by putting my fingers on my wrist
but I could feel it in that little indent
at the place where your throat meets your neck

well, that's how I described it
I remember my swimming teacher telling me I couldn't
that's not possible
I remember pleading with her
I'm not kidding, I feel it, right here
putting my fingers in that little indent where my throat met my neck

tonight, I'm sitting on the back deck looking up to the sky
even though it's raining heavy, I had to come outside to breathe
to feel my pulse
even though my blood is pumping, hard and fast
and has been that way for days
there've been moments when I've wondered
am I still alive
is that my heart beating or is that pulse the sound of my heart being beaten
either way, my heart is broken
I'm broken, shattered, scattered into pieces
like those bodies in Pulse's bathroom and on the dance floor
like the bouncer who was no match for a crazed gunman at the door
like mothers texting, calling, pleading for a response
for their phone to ring, or vibrate, or pulse
anything better than silence

my heart is bleeding, like it was the day before
when I opened a long-hidden vein and let the truth drain out
there was no perfect way to say it
I'd been practicing it for months, for years really, a lifetime
every morning and evening checking for a pulse
not with fingers pressed into my wrist
but into that little indent where my throat meets my neck
wondering will this be the day I finally bleed out and tell someone I'm gay

being open was like a perfect match transfusion
a much-needed infusion of hope
a shot of freedom
and her affirmation a restoration of my very being
one down and a world to go

but within a day I was back to that place
anxiously, frantically, desperately searching for my pulse
hope and courage in full arrest
I put two fingers to my wrist
nothing
I checked that little indent where my throat meets my neck nothing
I tried another finger
nothing
my other hand
nothing

god, please, tell me I'm still breathing
that I didn't risk it all for nothing
I feared ridicule and rejection, but not a killing
I opened the vein that I might finally live and love, not die
that I might be filled, not emptied
that the constant pressure might be released, not drown me

the rain has ceased and I'm wet from tears
the gunman dead, yet not my fears
I survived one outing, can I face another

the worry like a body bag leaves me feeling smothered
a weight of grief keeps me still and desperate like Alejandro’s or Amanda's mother
needing to hear a ring, or feel a vibration
a pulse on my wrist, or that little indent where my throat meets my neck

dear god, I don't care, I just need to feel it somewhere
however faint or weak, something, anything
just a pulse
I need to know
I'm here

With water, wonder, and awe.
Rebecca & 10 Camels

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This is your personal invitation to visit 10camels.com and learn more about Unraveling (a whole package that includes the book, a sermon, a poetry show, and a workshop).

And if our words are a source of thirst-quenching water for you, please share Wednesdays at the Well with a friend…or 2 or 3!