It will always be walking through tough cement, lemon rinds and jack-one swift sailor high on a Black Sea
drifting for eternity, fighting off starvation, making friends with an idea.
Love is not sold on silent blue moons or Ancient Greek mistresses riding them bareback
but deep inside a reflection, an abbreviated determination that divides calm nights.
I watch you pray for those hours. God isn’t listening;
He is creating.
There is a leak in the Earth,
quietly letting mercy slip
out,
unnoticed.
Ashes sprout in Spring’s fresh
mouth – her lungs
blacken with ferocity,
a dark mother clouds the sky
of an innocent,
a soft snow lays silent,
begging the earth to warm;
a quick suicide.
Her arms cradle his delicate
voice, she is moon craters
and crackling fire embers,
an Earth of her own.
Heavy waves of blood crash through
a golden heart,
blue eyes sicken and he cries.
Her own waves say goodbye –
and the Earth opens one more time.
A woman wrinkles over her chair,
soaked in religion,
piling God’s children on gravel.
They eat with her disciples
where bread is dry, yet
milk is sweet.
I stand by with clover.
I paint the children green and set them up
as chess pieces.
Confused feet step over boundaries,
but it is her game.
Her weight stomps chicken bones.
Her voice pours like gravy
over our heads, till I put them to sleep,
and the lullaby’s rock me
as I bleach time from my head.
The woman is asleep
in God’s arms, I rest at his feet,
and the children,
in their sleep, sing.
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