Luke 15

Knuckling hosannahs
from the sockets of my eyes.
The back of my hand is wet
with illness, dry with winter.
Kicked off my blankets, uncovered,
the shivering rise and fall
of my chest confesses the chill,
the hardness of the blood beneath.
Take me under my trembling
arms, lift me onto your bent
shoulders. Let me join the rest,
where all is recovered.

March 26, 2009

My tongue aggrandizes
academically, that is to say
I don't love You. I say
I do, I'm covenanted to
what I've said. You know
that promise is deliverance,
for in times lacking touch
I've lusted for our violence,
a toothless tearing of flesh;
a rationalism You'd hate and I would regret.

Perhaps in refusing our separation,
I've instead divorced my heart
from my head.

A creed to come back to,
a serpent bronzed, a representation
of inauguration; something solid to
repent into. A cup that is deep enough
to hold blood for my contrition
to dissolve in, a body that is strong
to be lifted up, once for my sin,
and then once again.

What tragic beauty, arabian jujube
pressed in scarlet curls,
perspiration falling on the neck of
Your heaving back, eyes falling to
the dust of the ground.
You felt as I do now. A separation
what ran through You and what You said.
But unity was stronger, still is,
than that which splinters our skin.

Advent: Day Two

Psalm 119

"Oh, that my ways were steadfast in obeying your decrees!"

Smoke is the taste of my fingertips
as i lie under the duvet, and bite
the brittle nails. Scared as northern
fruit flies that circle my coffee,
dying in the sweetness that calls them,
i am certainly crying beneath
the sweet warmth of blessings disregarded
for the promise of temptation.

Confession then, i will drink my coffee
without sugar for several weeks.
At least until You come and answer me,
i will face my mornings cloaked in
black and bitterness. i have sinned,
i have hidden, and i have been cleaned.
What more shall be asked of me than
grimacing sorrow and humility?

Advent: Day One

Isaiah 1

"When you spread out your hands in prayer, I will hide my eyes from you; even if you offer many prayers, I will not listen. Your hands are full of blood; wash and make yourselves clean."

i scratch through december grass,
gathers in small patches,
gathers to stretch toward sky
with green hands groaning for snowfall.

Unraked ground cannot receive
the purest of precipitation,
the crystals will cling to the edge of the leaf
and leave muck in wicked mounds.

To cry to the God of heaven
and clear what remains beneath,
that is the waiting,
the joining of remorseful removal
and bowing for the expectant approval,

i churn out the wet and decaying
while praying for purest renewal.