where i lay my head to sleep.
this language is new. a mix of invitations between my soul and you
a door is opened whenever a sharp and silent string
pulls
and swiftly makes taut the veins that nourish that bulb of pain.
there are strange days when i wanted to saw
my tender tendon nerves into 2.
lord, does pain engender greater trust in you?
once, your salvific acts brought me strength.
your bearing of cross, flagrum and hyssop were perfect metaphors
for my catholic depth. physicality was what i sought.
these consoling sacramental parts of gospel truth enabling
mere human handicaps to become extraordinary
long-suffering happy saints.
do you remember the naive volumes of notes i used to pen,
in memory of you?
i can now sit still and demolish in perfect peace
these old blocks of archaic theology.
i fold old (copious) diaries into paper boats and moor them away.
find delight in holy darkness as their white lights set
sail to indifferent seas.
saying this, i sense a storm would break and make me cold,
still nothing came forth. a somnolent sky stretches,
to stare on me.
i have become a subtle brute in the way i pray.
but i see your smile, lord.
and you return this evening
to carry me,
ruffle my hair
and kiss my cheek.
No comments:
Post a Comment