build you a fort
of sheets.quilts
blankets–
counterpanes
A Comforter Stronghold
pillow masonry
fortifying all our flying
buttresses
around this cathedral
the artisans, all children
nobody hurt there
not allowed–
the very law of love
forbids it
and all the pain
of our collective
history
would unravel like a braid each night
healing all these grievous wounds
his conversation with the devil
his last meal
the things He gathers with his hands
broken treasure
if you being evil
He asks
(rhetorically–don’t answer that…)
give your children good things
stones for bread
our history
my dear
my darling
if I could only roll
all the stones away
and find you living
Bread among the stones
bred among stones
my love…
I say
God: Space Artist
and you respond:
“Heh.
The Universe +
gravitation=
collisions
and mergers
of galaxies.”
Nice
is another word for weightless
ephemeral
and sombrero
comes for the ancient
word for shadows
and sorrow.
I see splendor in
the arc of the living
God.
you shake your head
and I am inclined to ask whether
you genuinely believe
the Pieta
is just a big rock
worn down by friction?
canst thee see Jesus?
canst thee see the creator?
Michaelangelo amidst the stars.
no.
all the bodies
of water in texas
run to the sea
run to the words
of our ancient creed
the body of a man
downed–
corpus Christi
his mother, a lake
and the sound of an island
Father…
maybe I love them…
because of the Jesuits
because Spanish is a mother tongue
Corpus Christi, Padre Island, Laguna Madre…
all the rivers flow to the sea
all the beautiful rivers–
the Trinity used to be my favorite
even when it would flood
and desperate men would sand bag it
or flee for higher ground
but there are other rivers now
that haunt my memory,
the Guadalupe, for instance
means–
girl comes from wolves
from the valley of wolves
spreads foreign roses at my feet
there is no “g” or “d” in my native language
but then maybe Juan Diego himself was just a phantom
like the pings off a cell
tower
electrical beacons conspiring
with sound
looking for a lost son
what river do you cross
to enter Texas?
and what river do you cross
to leave it?
go down to that River that runs to the sea
and find my boy,
all our lost children
Come Home.
d
be the stranger
in the rumpled coat
sitting on the bench
in the train station, in the park
who abides all your sorrow
who listens to your torrent of sadness
who ponders your own
sea of grief
let me be the silent
placeholder
for the God of grief
who alone
can wake the dead
is a beautiful
girl
swimming
smooth strokes through the water
how did she learn to do that?
was it me?
was it you?
was it the strength of all our recessive
genes?
we would say everything
she did was beautiful
and that would be true
but we were
her family
and now
that she has slipped
through the waters
with her confident stroke
not paddling
awkwardly like a child
when i was a child…i thought like a child
reasoned like a…
child
come back!
you can do flip turns
with your eyes closed
come back–
do not
put childish ways behind you–
I need you here
cannot
think
of the world
one day without you
even though I know–
believe–
that we do see
but a poor reflection
(as in a mirror)
then we
shall
see
face to face
Again.
(tiny voice)
still small voice…
come back–
What if they were like
Objects?
That you could touch with your hands?
Wipe a counter or a brow with Love?
Or spread an ermine Mercy
Over the body
Of a sleeping child?
What if anger had a bifurcated
Tongue
Lighting
Either chaff
Or
Home on fire
What word?
What ordinary word?
Would stop the fire
Speak peace to the wind
And rebuke
The dogs of loss
Stalks us
Like a cat
Or a griffin, perhaps
A gargoyle poised
On each vaulted and crumbling
Precipice
A reminding presence
Of the hstory
Constructed in tiny pieces
Of loss
I trace the veins
Once mined
Once quarried
Hewn from the ancient
Stone
Who would have known
Stone
Could be fragile
Indelibly etched
Like a lover’
s face
Lines traced
With the tips of my fingers
map a course across the rock/across the polished surface
That separates
You from me
Like myth from the living
Truth
Carrying Light 