Pursue Truth with Passion
She seeped in on crimson arterials
and oxygenated my heart
her Psalmic words, my Rumi words
we conjugated in a circle of cedar
Oxygenated my heart
and the Word was made flesh
we conjugated in a circle of cedar
learned ourselves together into tapestry
And the Word was made flesh
scripted scripture, words in red
learned ourselves together into tapestry
lectio divina, our morning song
Scripted scripture, words in red
until covenant stopped her cold
lectio divina, our morning song
funneled away along lifeless blue veins
Until covenant stopped her cold
I never doubted the divine truth
funneled away along lifeless blue veins
I feared death and clutched at what was
I never doubted the divine truth
until she told me she didn’t love me enough
I feared death and clutched at what was
like a breathless runner in pursuit of the finish line
Until she told me she didn’t love me enough
beauty breaks open the human heart
like a breathless runner in pursuit of the finish line
Finish line? finish line? What is the truth?
Beauty breaks open the human heart
I thought she said she spoke the truth in love
Finish line? finish line? What is the truth?
She seeped in on crimson arterials, and
Rondel instead of rondeau
she covets openness of form
freedom of being:
gray, grieving tear space
instead of fenced emotions
precariously unclaimed
instead of “Will you be mine?”
She covets a dancing solitude
heart to the wind
instead of family dinners
same time same place of security
instead of firm footing
a wobbly walk on the edge
leaping lapping flames
along spinal curls she craves
every night
every night
every night
she craves and covets
a wild abandon
wild flowers in spacious fields
a sunlit gold in a heartbeat
she could possess
but if she does
would the shimmering desire
the dandelion puff in her palm
lose the glory
as she wraps her fingers round?
O
succulent one
full ripe I write
cheek in hand
elbow propped
on table top
I write about fruit
and fecundity
because I am not
writing about you
or the pillow
between my thighs
or the echo of kisses
and lustful cries
I write words
like velvet diadems
and emerald robes
because you will never see
words that brush, flush, and flutter
words that hum in swollen breasts
you will never see caress.
I write about Susan and Emily D.
words over backyard laundry lines
words between the sheets
I write word song cabarets
smoke ringed illusions
of tuxedoed women
poised on the edge
of their straight backed chairs
legs spread whisky
voices blended in fifths
unlike our Gregorian fourths
I write about Sister Clare
on bended knee
in poverty
in chastity
in Lenten contemplation
seeking God’s words
as distraction
from your lips.
I write a vow
a convenient
a promise
I promise to write
You and Yahweh
instead of you and my way
and yet
O
