Thursday, November 19, 2020

The Chalice You Are

I want to drink from the chalice you are until my throat cries out for mercy.

In the morning the quarter moon glides knifelike through trout-colored clouds. My brain empties of both prayer and the idea of prayer.

I have nothing but this longing for you, am nothing but this longing.

The landscape is moving faster now, trains bearing down on me in darkness.

My heart is hymnal, happy, horticultural.

You were in the corner of the cafe once, reading Neruda, and did not once look up at me loving you so deeply that the world ended in me and was born again on terms and conditions so lovely my heart became a crystal lattice full of rainbow-colored roses swaying in light breezes.

Whispers, worships. 


You crawling on all fours up the bed towards me waiting, breath quickening, parts of me weakening remembering what it means to be loved.

There are parts of Vermont that are all of you forever. There are hills I will never climb again but on my knees.

We break laws and realize there is only one law and it is us.

You were in the corner of the cafe once and Bob Dylan's Wedding Song came on and my life died and was born again as the coming-and-going coming and going.

Those who practice the sacred embrace will kindle the Light. 

Taking your hand in the candle store, in the book store, in the bakery where we cannot decide what to buy and the tired woman waiting on us gazes out the window, thinking of her love. 

First and last, one without a second.

Your shadow on the bedroom wall merging with other darks. 

It has to do with forgetting.

My love, my lover, my letting go and letting God.

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