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Posts Tagged ‘communion’

Hearing Aid



 
 
I slipped my ear
into your pocket
close to your heart.
It wanted to be near
the steady thump
of those chambers,
a rhythm more reassuring
than any lullaby.
My ear likes it there
against your chest,
likes the warm hum
of your voice floating
over it, your words
indistinct through the cloth.
Forgive this eavesdropping
on the pulse of you,
but it is the only news
that interests my ear today
while the rest of me
works far away.
Yes, the only thing
my ear wants to hear
is the red song of you
like a faithful drum beating
here, here, here.
 

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I want to read the poem of you—
want to hold in my breath
your intimate rhythms
want to translate in my lungs
the silences between your stanzas,
want to feel in my heart
the sharp tug of your turns,
the communion of your inner rhymes.

I want to follow
the ever-emerging form of you,
want to know which words
are appearing even now
in the divine cursive
that writes us all,
want to wander in your ambiguities,
wonder about your secrets,
marvel at your beauty,
be wrestled by your oppositions.

I want to recite your lines
again and again and again
so your stories
are the allusions that inspire
the emerging poem of me.

This is the poem in which I admit
every poem has the potential
to break open the heart—
imagine the size of the book.
This is the poem in which I remember
the heart was made to break open.

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I don’t want us to be
like Jupiter and Saturn,
slowly moving toward each other
only to find ourselves
slowly moving further away.
When we conjoin,
let it be that we find
our paths not crossing
but merging, moving
us forever in the same direction,
our light uniting so brightly
others might imagine
it signifies a miracle—
and they will, of course,
be right.

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Winter Evening

Though I sit alone

on my couch at home,

I’m somehow also sitting

with Rachel and Julie

and it’s summer and

we’re laughing, laughing

until we tumble

into each other’s laps,

laughing as we collapse

into a puppy pile of giggles,

laughing because it feels

so good to laugh—

even now I laugh aloud

with no memory of why

we were laughing then,

but many years later,

it’s still contagious.

Sometimes we tumble

so wholly into the grace

of a moment

that it opens in us forever,

continuously blooms

and spreads its perfume

like night-blooming jasmine,

christens everything

with its fragrance,

even this empty room,

even this tired woman

now so surprisingly awake.

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Join Me?

all day I spike my tea

with sky—

is it any wonder

by night I’m singing

love songs

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Less

 

 

Today I can see how I wear it

like a velvet dress, the dream

 

of wanting to be somebody.

It’s so easy to forget I am wearing it.

 

Because it is lovely. Because

it feels good. But life

 

hands me a hanger and asks me

to take off the dress

 

and move naked today

through my inner rooms.

 

It’s not as if anyone else can see,

but I notice, as I must,

 

how much easier it is now to know

the self as sunrise, as apple seed,

 

as cinnamon, as you.

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One Unbaptized

 

 

filled with golden leaves,

the pond, and shimmering with sky

and me, too dry, too dry

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sitting in darkness—

how easily I forget

we are separate

 

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Once I would say “table,” and mean

“table.” Once, I would say

“broccoli” and mean “broccoli.”

I would say “stone” and mean

“stone.” I really did believe

that things were separate.

And nameable. Now,

every word that comes

out of my mouth, no matter

how many syllables, no matter

the tone of voice, no matter

my intention, I’ve come to understand

that every word

is really just a translation

for thank you,

thank you for this moment.

And every silence between the words,

regardless how brief,

is really just the sound

of one hand in gratitude clapping.

 

 

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I wanted my love to avalanche,

and love said to me, be flake of snow,

 

I wanted my love to be tsunami,

and love said, be water in my glass.

 

Be crumb of bread, be scrap of cloth,

be ray instead of sun.

 

I wanted to be enormous.

Love said to me, be one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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