King in the Last Day of June

Pesto, hope chest,
cleverly disguised as
blueberries,
roll on the tongue and
pop //
swallow,
new wine, new wine-
skin,
presents saved and stacked in the cupboard till
Christmas;
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
(rapt)
in swaddling clothes,
and I, too, find him satisfactory.




---

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

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
cruel?

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 

                                                            whatever

      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.

---

Gambol

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
                                                                           
                                                                              always
                                                                                      hearing
                                                                                   me.
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!

---

DO YOU LOVE ME?

Lord Jesus, meet me here. On my bed.
Feeling sort of embarrassed, unhinged. Straw-stuffed.
Quicken me. Float me in Your river.
Be the gentlest mist to soften my skin and help me feel again.
Be the storm whipping me ragged.

What I really need is not sex, but it is love.
I need to trust Your love more. I am terrified to trust You.
Do You see how ridiculous I'm being? How contradictory
and mean? Pound this meat with a mallet! Drill all through me,
saturate and dissolve me. Cleanse me with hyssop.

Open, open, open all the dusty shutters. Sweep this place out,
air my thoughts and feelings and tired bones. Hang sweet-
smelling herbs inside. Show me I'm alive.
Make me alive, sharp as cider vinegar.
I love this life. I love the bigness and variety of it.

And the closeness and specificity. I love color
and touch and smell and taste - Jack's sauce
on a wooden spoon. The soft shadows cast
in my room. The bagpipe-drone of distant
lawnmowers. The pleasure of scratching an itch.

And I wish, I wish, I wish, to be wet all through with rain.
To be rocked in tree boughs again. To hold hands
and not care that I'm sweaty.
Knit me, Lovely, deep into Your vine.
I want to feel Your sap mingling with mine.


---

FHB

Life is too short to cross-stitch.
But long enough for silence in the car (so long
I forgot you were there
and dreams crept up on me,
wrapped warm and purred
around my legs).
Green hills, hills,
the window down, my right arm
sunburned. Blanched windbreak of a face.

Life is too long to plant nothing -
to think fruit trees won't
bear fruit (or the flowers that flower next year)
aren't worth planting.
Stars have been singing all this blooming time. (You don't
require my oblation. Why should I
save stamps?) Fold up one white dress,
eat backyard weeds in order
to give liberally (FHB),
when the bread is broken,
soggy,
gone,
seed planted.

---

*FHB: "Family Hold Back"

Sundust

Certain slants of light remind me of epiphany
my Mother with a crumpled Kleenex in the passenger's seat,
lifting and shaking it out in a puff of golden,
sun-caught dust. I sat in strapped
compliance behind, transported
by the glinting fairy cloud, each fleck
an airy and impossible thing,
floating down,
slowly descending.
I had seen this before,
the flaming dust,
magic.