Monday, June 30, 2014

King in the Last Day of June

Pesto, hope chest,
cleverly disguised as
roll on the tongue and
pop //
new wine, new wine-
presents saved and stacked in the cupboard till
this little child is
King of July,
King in the last day of June,
grinning like a toothless moon:
I followed the fireflies
and found
the babe
in swaddling clothes,
and I, too, find him satisfactory.


Ref. T.S. Eliot, "Journey of the Magi"

Monday, June 16, 2014

These Drownings Feel Like Baptism

"This far you may come, and no farther;
here is where your proud waves halt."

Maybe You have been a little lax with us, forgot to turn the water off.
But everything knows You mean well;
the garden grows regardless of my droughts,
and even the basement flooded apologetically
like a shame-faced child
with wet pants.

Could You be
more gentle? Any more

Everything I love, I am afraid of.
How long did my voice go on, and all they were 
were words, were whimpering, were fumbling 
trying to touch You (trying to see through, feeling shapes in the dark,
the door handle, the bedpost, the light switch
    is broken, it must be, You have never been 
cruel to me), 
Or have You? 

Have You.
How can I? I'm sitting at Your table, playing hostess.
"Do you know when the mountain goats give birth?"
Will You take more salad? I made this stew myself.

River deep, can I know You as well as You know me?

I want him to be well. 
This is more than a lot of analogies about pearls and tapestries, 
thorns-in-the-flesh and stigmata. Shake down the stars on us. 
"Can you bind the beautiful Pleiades?"
Sing in tongues. We sang to her as she lay in a coma, on the bedsheets 
with Hawaiian flowers that my roommate gave to me. 
And there she died today. You can't say You didn't know. 
"Can you loose the cords of Orion?"
I'll tell You everything I want, and before You say no, 
show me that I don't want any of it. 
I want You and more You     and 

      You are

the liminal pleasure of not touching.
Eyes closed at the piano, feeling notes, finding chords, that-one-sweet
stirred me -
sustain. . . sustain. . . last just a little longer before
my fingers slip into dissonance and lift quickly 
in pain.

Carry me, Your love is wider than my need could ever be.

These drownings feel like baptism.


"'This far you may come, and no farther; here is where your proud waves halt.'" (Job 38:11 NIV)
"Do you know when the mountain goats give birth?" (Job 39:1 NIV)
"Can you bind the beautiful Pleiades?Can you loose the cords of Orion?" (Job 38:31 NIV)
"River deep, can I know You as well as You know me?" (Jars of Clay, "River Constantine")
"Carry me, Your love is wider than my need could ever be." (ibid.)

Ref. Sufjan Stevens: "I Want To Be Well"

Soul Cake

Lord, why do I love You? In the silent loneliness of my soul, why do I believe?

It is all made of cake. All these things. Nothing is real. Not really mine.
This is cake lamp, cake book, cake antique stool. Shoe cake. Soul cake.

I began praying the Artisan's Prayer, and forgot I was until I heard myself say
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen. 

Lord, shake us up! Me up! Unchain the tiger in my ribcage! I turn into a sallow
mealworm between dreams. What courage is there in me? It doesn't matter.
You do. So help me be true to You.
I am only a balloon, You are the solid, the real, the soul. Cake.


Wednesday, June 4, 2014


I haven't got enough of You.
I want every inch, every little muscle from the outside to the inside.
I want Your eyes, the way they flash. Their terrifying constancy.
Give me also the dirt around Your fingernails,
and Your breath, heady and warm. Let me see up close
the caverns of Your ear, their folds, their small hairs somehow
You have not grown old. You are newer to me now
than before, when I was <busy>. But one small
day is not enough. I have only begun to map You, and one place,
once noticed, changes in innumerable lights. Yet
You always stay the same. You wheel me giddy into laughter and despair -
will I ever? Can I ever? Know You?

Master. Lover. Leader. What shame is there in our wild dance? This
is (ab)original, as it has always been. Our dance.
Our gambol.

Lord, take me now. Now I'm full of soup, and ready
for something steady and contrite. Concrete.
Keep forming me. Make use of all the rags, wear me
to shreds and then
compost me.
Oh spring! Oh green! Let me keep making life
and more life, always!