“there’s no base!”
Exclaimed the girl–green shirt, tiny dog resembling a toy…
only real in the crook of her arm
And suddenly I get atheism–
Darwin shouts in the schoolyard–
no base!
And unhinging the game from…
well, base-
Another name for
The trunk of the branching oak
we rest beneath
breathing hard
before someone says
One, two, three, get off my father’s apple tree
Not to be confused with
That one inimitable player who says
One, two, three, base all over me
And somehow, miraculously
Means it.
her voice is metallic-insistent-succinct
Fire! Fire! Fire!
Thank God she is there
10 dollar angel
suspended above us while we sleep
…when we sleep
You know it took me years to know You did that
And then years again to know few others did.
Vigilant love, calling us out of darkness
where angels who watch over us if we
had eyes to see
Always resemble the Firstborn
Fill the sky with light
Ring the children with wings and eyes
And teach them how to vanquish
Implacable darkness
with words of supplication
to the fierce Unstoppable
God of Light.
middle page of something
My words to you
unnailed, unpierced, still love
Disconnect. Disconnect
these broken
Bones, sinews, ligaments
Teeth and bones become
Rebellious things in the house
Unknit, unswept, unmade
Until…
what is left?
When I cannot walk to you, run to you
Reach the limit of the horizon
Lie awake old
Teeth, old bones
Grind out hours in the dark
wondering where was
Ezekiel’s army beneath
integumentary sand
Old bones
No longer insanguinate
They lie down, sleep children cuddled beneath
The coverlet of
God singing His
Bruising love song
Lullaby in the place of the skull
Has, is, will
Sing to the dead
Broke-bone army
Spoke to life
Grip the blade,
Fit to fight
I have thought of this, my little love
Rifled through the pockets of my diminished
Powers of speech and human governance,
To find you all good things:
Enhanced night vision
Kick-ass ninja skills
The irrefutable assurance of your loveliness
Not enough.
So let us add:
Dragons rise to your command
Eagles lift you to the place where air grows thin
and may you
always see
The clear road home.
Too much, you protest
So down to this,
voice of love
what if it was perfume
or acorns stashed in my pockets?
Bits of things remind me
of you
Lost to me for now
I trace all the
Alternate
timelines of our
Would-be existence together
How did you
sprint past me, Dear?
Leaving perfume, acorns
emptied from the inside out
This pocketful of
Birnam Wood in my hands,
in my hands, this forest floor
Dirt, mulch, fallen leaves, roots, baby trees…
Saplings, timbers, interlacing
Limbs outstretched toward the warm
Light of God who takes away the sins of the world
…the story we will be.
He says
The least of these in the language of childhood
Neither emperors nor governors nor bards
Gather the little ones
…least of these
Army of small
Wanderers in the world
They look for a Savior
Older Brother King
Who can
Calm the storm
Speak peace to the wind
And tell all bedtime stories
With hope at the beginning and the end
Of each hard letter
INRI
The least of these-
M.
Roll the stone away
Jesus of Nazareth, King of the…
Minimum.
the tape is a blur of
ordinary splendor
songs sung loud in a messy
house vivid patchwork
some mention of a circus
close to the tear in the hand-made quilt
I touch your brow
tell you
take your medicine before you go out to play
Round, pink, chewable analgesic
as you lift your head to receive the pill
Eucharist in the living room,
old and beautiful
Words for “good” and “grace”
So close to your already liturgical
Beautiful like…
A rose
A ruby
A diamond
A butterfly
A boy in flight
in a fit of unease
she has an out-of-body experience
Rising above the squalor
Imagining what it would be like
To live inside the perfect house
Instead–she dusts the counters and all the edges
with cinnamon to deter the sugar ants
Beats the air with questions
Washes and re-washes clothes, stones, teeth
Delays bodily functions
To search for
-The weighted blanket-
Surrogate mother/synthetic comforter
Lyrics/verses
of a lullaby sung softly by the
I still have unanswered questions for the hand-sized catfish I pulled out of the Blanco River today.
It was caught in some debris, entangled in some fishing line.
Hard to get to.
Weirdly specific salvation (if you don’t believe in a God who sees stuck fish).
But if you do…
You wonder who was the fisher with the broken line?
When was he last here?
How long has this darkish catfish been stuck in the line?
Will it live? Line cut, hook still in?
The Gospel is chocked full of fish stories.
But they don’t all get saved, hook or no hook still stuck in the craw.
And then there is me: fished out by Jesus, standing wet in the afternoon sun, inventorying fish stories.
…. Caesar’s likeness on the coin in its belly.
….No sign but Jonah
….The empire of Rome long gone
this one small fish wriggles free
marvels at the hidden depths
in the quotidian
stories of being
fished out.
having an ordinary name
(Think cow or child’s toy)
Means misnomer–
Betty, Becky, pieces left out
Or added
My favorite-gleanor
So close
To gleaner
I ask myself
What if it was George? Harold? Londerson? Jamal?
Would I still
Recognize your voice
Trace the familiar
Lines along
Your hands, your face?
Your gaze holds firm
Your love unswerving
Written, Word
Carrying Light 