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In black and white, the children cross the ridge
Over the chasm.
The angel, in fluffy robes,
Hovers over them, guards them in all their ways
Although the bridge is narrow
Rotten woods
Where some of the slats are gone
And even the rail has fallen.
I stare at this card,
Smaller than my palm,
Which I’ve found
In the top drawer
Of the dresser in my Aunt Julia’s bedroom,
Which seems to be black and white
In my memory, or brown and gray,
And in my memory it’s November
Or February

In folio 32v, Jesus sits, not on the Throne of Heaven,
but on an ordinary blue kitchen chair. He’s barefoot
and holding a book. In principio erat verbum;
in the beginning was the Word. His hair, blond
plaits ending in Celtic twists. He’s framed,
not by angels, but by farmhouse peacocks.
You can almost hear their unworldly squawks.
On other pages, we see books brandished by angels
instead of flaming swords. Or clutched to the chests
of young boys. St. Matthew is holding his gospel

“Do you think . . . that you are really using the talent God gave you
when you don’t write something that a lot, a LOT, of people like?”
—Flannery O’Connor, quoting Regina O’Connor’s commentary on her fiction

“Thou shalt not eat of the golden fruit of the tree
In the midst of the garden,” the voice a negative
Of flesh drawn toward the deadly lust to live,
To know, to touch forbidden fruit, to see.
A tongue hisses, mocking the cruelty
Carved in commands only deities can give.
“Reach out, my lovely, toward the web I weave—”
His tongue glistens with possibilities.
A globe breaks like a glass of ruby wine
Filling the fissures of the earth with shade.
Knowing, I bid my languid lover dine.
We feed on chaos in the naked glade,

On Saturday,
you learned to laugh, startled me
with the sudden leap to this voicing,
how the joy was in your whole body,
kicking and kicking on your blue elephant linen,
the way you did before you were born

In the beginning
It was passed on
It all began when
It was passed on
Handed down
From lip to ear
Mind to heart
Not taught
Not instructed
Not told
Not given
And surely not discussed
It was passed on to us.
Ere we were
It was
It was passed on to us,
And we became
The light
And the law
His flesh
In this life
Born again
Over and over
After each
And after every
No matter the fire
Restoration
The ways of holiness.

when you stand with the men,
when you love, and do not despise,
and peel off Brother Ivan’s moist socks—
his feet two toads, bumpy, swollen,
earth-smelling—his nails snaggled, pitted,
sandpapery, little buttons, little moons—
you dip his feet, wash, cradle, pat dry,
he says oh—and all of it—the water,
the soft pink towel, his pursed mouth,
skin on skin—is holy, holy, holy—