And after you kissed me
and we walked from my room
with its fleur de lis wall paper
that feels like brushed silk
under my trailing hand
to a space more conducive to
clear thought
I wondered what I was doing.
There came a moment
of clarity when
I realized we inspire one another
in ways that surprise us both
but Christ not so much
as He nods His head and whispers
I told you so
I told you this
you were just busy
not listening.
I’m listening now.
There is a sound
like thunder on the horizon
darkened like coming-storm
quiet like my heart in my ears
absolute and ending
roiling, rolling, raging toward
a not so distant point between
God’s eyes and my heart.
Woke this morning on the fire escape.
Vaguely remembered telling you
about doves carrying you to heaven.
About the planks and ply I’ve
savaged from midnight construction zones
(my militarized zones of discontent)
to build the morning doves a shanty
up on the roof where the building super
can’t reach because of a key fused in a lock.
Hm. I have an interesting way
of wooing you.
There was something about olive prunings
that the ancient, gnarled gardener at the arboretum
gave me from his beloved tree
that his wife brought him back
from the Holy Land.
How I felt that doves should have olive twigs
because they carried it back to Noah.
Something about the white-haired little
woman on the street selling balls of yarn
and I bought one green (like stormy sea)
and one purple (like royalty)
and the doves unspun it all and tangled it
throughout their make-shift rafters.
Did I mention how someone told me
recently even
how the birds are called mourning doves
not morning and how that fills my chest
with a sadness I can’t explain away?
How when the silver sky is heavy
and it darkens like a bruise into twilight
how I climb to the roof and listen to the sounds
of them settling into their cluster of
feathers and Christ’s own collection of heartbeats?
That there is no better place to
cry silently, head bowed in prayer
than sitting with my back against the
concrete- and plaster-spattered cast-offs of
LA construction teams wrapped around
silver, white, and auburn birds
with their small, round, deep, wise eyes
that watch me from between planks
and wonder if they can steal a bit of my hair
for their yarn and olive twig horde.
I awoke to the Lord’s day fully upon me.
Nestled in my iron perch.
Stiff with cold, the pattern of crosshatch metal
stamped into my brown cheek.
“Good afternoon, Christ,” I murmured.
And crawled back in the window.
The cat was sleeping on the bed.
He had even drawn back the covers.
The apartment was empty and silent.
I dressed and made the cat a mug
of coffee with cream.
I looked at a plate of toast.
Where did it come from?
Who plans to eat this?
Apparently the cat.
Outside, crisp air becoming warm
ran my finger tips over my bike
cool metal in the shade of the garage.
Ignition like first breath.
At the arboretum I walked among spring roses
in riotous bloom. The sky segmented into hexagons
of protective glass reflecting heat and light
onto these small, round captives.
Today I keep my hands in my pockets.
I will myself not to touch them.
I think of you. Blooming in the rainforest.
The brilliant red of passion against
the lush million greens of God's own Earth.
There were honey bees.
There was a soft cross breeze.
There was Christ standing beside me
needing no words. Just knowing
everything, always, forever
so that tears running down my face
are never a surprise. Are never met with
pity, shock, worry
and always met with His hand in mine.
And I whisper, “Thank you.”
Because there is nothing else to say.
Except, “Why?” but I already know
that answer.
Riding not home
but somewhere else.
Somewhere, anywhere
trying to lose and find myself
in the same place.
Wondering how easy it will be
to find wifi in a community
where the average income is six figures.
The age of communication
granting voice to wallets and trust accounts.
I wonder at the four way stop
when the light will shine through
the silver clouds and touch my face
fill my eyes as I think of you
the way I think of all things holy.
Reverence and passion
irrevocably interwoven.
EJ
