You turn your blonde head away from me
where I can still see the shadow on your cheek
My naked eye is always looking for your tender skin under all of those garments made in the east
the search for you is never tiresome as the loss we turn away from
or as weary as this pretending that you don’t have a dark side
Hope lays quietly inside like the first still of water below the surface of ripples.
It is the eager bat hunting before his usual hour, but remembering the early bird has already been here.
It is the moon trapped between two outside walls that can’t see light, or refract it, or diminish it.
It is a cloud jumping from the ledge of a hospital window, fractured from imagination and willing to break further still to feel free.
It is a lost butterfly wing in a crowded street.
I used to make list about the dreams, now they are lists of categorized necessities:
Hammer nails, paint
Milk, cereal, eggs
Goal one, two, three
These lists feel like the last lover I had who brought me all of his sorrow and need. He wept afterwords, like I weep on my way across the parking lot from the store to my car. I’ve bought everything on my list and still, I cannot get back to the dreaming.
The death rattle is the last
Decision we ever make.
It is the long pause at the door
Before stepping through
To the other side of who we are
As we stand still, and who we will be
After the knob twists us, and the door makes the sound of decision.
There is no going back.
On the counter, lilies as white and fragile as life are splayed open like a woman’s thighs arched upward into her lover.
The body is dying the entirety of our lives while the soul reaches higher and harder for ecstasy.
Faith is the space between you and the thing you cannot see, the space between hips arching into darkness and a warm hand.
I once had a lover who healed me as he passed his hands over me without touching me. When he came to my throat he told me to trust him. I breathed deep and something unseen moved me.
God’s hand is at my throat.
The amish people were in faded blues like a sky over an empty corn field at the end of summer when the harvest has left only dust and heat in the middle of nowhere.
The women had on hats and long dresses, boots laced up past their ankles. The girls walked almost along the edge of the water but they never touched it. They rippled away from the lake like little waves, becoming in themselves water, as if to remain separate from the external element itself. How strange it must feel to be in the world but not of it.
Fragments of blue dresses and sky disappear into the trees and I can hear an entire thirsty world wrestling against the breeze, not knowing where it is coming from but knowing where they are going.
After they are gone, the empty beach is a deserted cornfield. Crows fly in like thieves dropped from a plane in a secret location. They exchange a few fragments of thought. There is nothing there for them to steal but crumbs of sin and purity that were left behind.
You unzipped my skin
From head to toe;
My bloodied heart,
Even my thighs peeled like fruit beneath
It is a naked I never knew
eventually we will catch up to ourselves.
the fireflies will be messengers to tell us of all of the things we have missed in our absence.
we prodigal sons waiting at the gate of our father’s home will be let in.
and the lamps will burn.
and the music will play.
and everyone we’ve ever loved will be smiling by the firelight waiting to greet us with open arms.
They light up the trees and in the trunks
I see inscribed, “You will never be a child again.” And in the leaves, “Your children will never be small again.”
Now, instead of catching them and putting them in jars to watch them closely during story time, we watch them from distances. One is crossing the porch railing on his tiny legs. Before he turns back to light, I say a quiet farewell to no one in particular.
Before I open my eyes :
A Cottonmouth in the river’s rise
a child is singing for the forbidden thing
it does not know what wreckage brings.
Mimosa sitting with the sleepy dusk
an eloquent pink humid musk
Summer shows a blushing breast
before it forms the void of eternal rest
Frogs here laugh at the dying sun
As if it isn’t the only one
I am alone on my worthy rock
In the summers root, a hollow stone.