I was hungry, and he thrashed
like a hurt turtle, paddling nowhere
on his sprawling, knobby joints.
Between the endless ropes of kelp
and the breath-bubbles spiraling
about his head, I didn’t see
his eyes rolling to whiteness,
the matted fur of head, chest, limbs
that would have signaled: man,
earth-born scourge of the seas,
now overthrown and scallop-pale
with cold. I swallowed him whole.
They have named me for a woman
who could pull the curtains back and peer
at the ineffable by inches.
I have one eye and broad wings for catching sun
and instructions to approach the god
slantwise to his poles.
Truth is come to by peregrinations
then a scurry to safety, flame faced and bright,
like Moses on the mountain glimpsing backside
of the Holy, like the woman grasping Jesus’ robe
and slipping through the crowd
possessed of power and changed.
Perijove by perijove I dive into the clouds
When spring comes,
The Body wakes,
Flesh of our flesh
Without whom nothing
Would exist.
Mother to all,
Raccoon, fish, flower,
No need neglected,
Food, warmth, water.
The Body stirs,
Buds quicken, sprout,
Green softens hills,
Trees blossom, fruit.
The womb in which
We have our being,
The dearest freshness
Deep down things.
Each spring reborn,
The Body rises,
The source of life,
Praise Her. Praise Him.
I am finally down
to what I need: one
table to double
for eating/writing,
one pen, and enough
alphabet to spell
Your name when
You choose to
disclose it.
I lazy-paged through it when he was done
With it for all eternity and read
His penciled margin notes. Each seventh one
Had misspelled words (e.g., a lead for led).
These savvy days, of course, one should do better
(Although I’m confident no beryl jewels
In his gold crown were compromised). Paul’s letter
Concluded (paraphrasing here) we’re fools
In this world’s eyes, dull dregs who write in square,
Prim capitals, just Eds who nervous-teach
Our fifth-grade Sunday schools, forgetting where
Your children ran ahead down
woodland trails always waited
laughing at forks for your nod
always settled within the comfort
of your soothing songs
as you showed them the sky
I know the contrary paths
they’re now choosing tear
at you & how they’re distracted
by shiny stones down in the dirt
with no God-vision or sense
of all you long to share
Rebellion’s a ribbon to wear in her bright, black hair
while she dances the jig with the neighbor’s squealing pigs
and three convict sons. No one ever shakes a head and says,
“Girls will be girls.” Not one. Not to the fretting parents who wring
their own necks in worry, who sing their own dirge to the sound
of strokes and stress. Not to the twirling deserter. Sex, the great
distinguisher, the great bearer of expectations, the great deceiver of grief
also confesses, “A child will be a child,” but even here finds no relief
For a while
We lived by the word
I am
You saw no image
I am
The word
Unseen and heard
Never to become flesh
All the sea’s ink
All the heaven’s parchment
Each blade of grass a quill
Each Jew a Scribe
We died by the word
Before the deed
Was done
The word became flesh
And the flesh became ash
We died by the word
Just one word
I am
Jude