The Journal of his Delights

Third Chance at Resurrection

This muffled comfort,
even the air is stiff with its melancholy,
the sick smell of old flowers and poison.

The skeletal jailer beside you
counts down, drop by drop,
shot by shot;
the sweetest irony,
the toxin fed you
for your own good,

through the Middle Passage¹,
this new repose,
your Henrietta Marie²,
your Adelaide,
your Wanderer.

It’s all a fettered heart can do
to press back into a sour-colored, vinyl-covered chair,
to count the marks upon withered yellow walls,
and keep from flying out and away
through the window for a third chance at resurrection.

What course now, old hate?
The old clock in the corner
counts down in starts and breaks,
breath catching with every turn,
and slanted light, jagged across the floor,
shadows more than it shows.

No,
my death’s head on a bed,
I will not flee today.
I will hold tight this silent witness
and wait.

And wait.
And wait.

For some day soon
the shackles will slip,
birds will sing
outside an open window,
and I will watch you
die.

What Would Rumi Say

What would Rumi say if he saw me?
Panting like a dog, barking at heaven,
aching to nuzzle my lover’s face.

It’s simple!
Get drunk and climb the nearest mountain.
Howl at the moon.
Pour out your heart like wine into that absolute longing.

Turn in place and skip sleep.
Fly straight into dreaming of your lover’s hand,
warm upon your neck.

Girding Her Loins

Fortitude,
you know—the real stuff,
like the he-man stories,
the heroes girding their loins
and going in guns blazing,

like Butch and Sundance,
Maverick in Top Gun,
and Henry at Agincourt.
Like Samson at the temple,
or better yet, Moses,
whose awful miracles struck an empire helpless.

                      * * *

What else can a mother say to her first born, but
“Sleep—don’t mind the frogs,
they’ve come from the river to sing your rest.
Let go—the darkness is meant for dreaming,
and as for the other tests,
you’ve passed them all, my darling boy.”

                      * * *

What is fortitude if not this?
The willingness to trust our children
to the maw of blind, uncertain faith;
the belief in something ridiculous,
like shrubbery ablaze.

The moon glimpsed through a tumult
of clouds and night—that is the light
in darkness; our hope set on a river
to be found by the enemy,
a daughter of the pharaoh,
who will pick a babe out of the water
and nourish him.

Remember Jesus in the desert?
He found the secret of his longing
in the realization of his incompleteness.
While his brothers sat in their caves,
hearts mildewing in the dampness,
he learned that fire saves
as well as burns.

Or better yet, Eve,
without whom we would be
as beautiful and empty as butterflies.
She who girded her loins
and took up the burden offered her,
trusting her children to the fruit,
opening the secret heart,
and in so doing,
created everything.

Artemis

Artemis,
wolves pad softly at your heels
leaving behind warm, dark dens.
Owls, mystery in their talons,
follow in the sky.
Even the heavens look on this night,
their thousand eyes unblinking.

Hunter,
the luminous moon, twin to your soul,
marks spoor and trail,
lighting the way into a forest
beckoning like a lover
ready with a serene and chill embrace.

The hart in darkness rests
wrapped in the soft folds of evening.
His sides quiver, sensing the quiet
spear’s red-tipped approach.

Goddess mantled in silver and shadow,
the slaughter of musk and iron carries on the wind,
the scent of earth made fertile,
and as your children gather, their eyes silent with bliss,
the stag’s head rises,

exultant.

The Story of the Blue Flamingo

Somebody once told me, “Hey, you’re funny. F-U-N-N-Y. Funny.” There’s a blue flamingo in the story too, but I forget that part.

Reuniting

The patter of water on concrete,
the sound of the rain’s slip-fingered fall to earth,
delicate like the bones of the inner ear,
made for listening to a softly beating heart.

Figures glide by an otherwise empty corner,
huddled against the damp and dark,
passing under a lamp post,
actinic beacon, spark, and measure
of the distance traveled to stand by this roadside
waiting for dusty memory—

a lost room of peeling yellow paint,
bright daffodils in a blue bottle,
and long dark hair spilling
from bed to knots in the floorboard.

Water drops from umbrella
to the street below, the dead outer skin
crumbling from the persistence of weeds,
pried open by their ugly beauty,
making way for the reuniting
of rain to the tenderness beneath,
the soft earth waiting for this necessary mercy.