Hummingbirds sipped from bottlebrush blooms.

A dark redwood blocked the rising sun,

But, there, to the left of a silhouetted bough,

A single light hovered on the horizon.

Steady, bold, and bright—

Jupiter, herald of cheer.

Eyes on the sun, a bridegroom, rising strongman,

Calling for laughter to battle the darkness.

She moored it to a redwood tree,

Lofty in the sunshine, doubly laced with dew.

She had big dreams,

But her workmanship won’t last.

Machines will blow it away.

Still, the breath catches at such audacity—

To make a thing, original, imperfect, fragile—

For her hunger, for my gaze, in this moment?

How brave.

Saree strewn on sleeping skin.

You crawl closer.

Too old to taste.

But oh! To touch?

Maybe … maybe.

Catch your breath.

Then—rest one finger.

On her upper arm.

Lightly, softly.

You get one tremor of joy.

Before the twitch and shudder.

Pull your hand back.

Curl behind her broken heart.

Wait for a turn.

Both of you, taken into woven folds.

Exhaling in embrace.

Inhaling the roses.

Cling for us, O Mary.

Broken heart aching for the timbre of his voice,

Cling for us, O Mary.

Longing for a glimpse of his battered body,

Cling for us, O Mary.

Clutch his wounded feet.

We will let go when you do.

He asks you not to touch him,

Stay for us, O Mary.

Divulges where he’s going,

Stay for us, O Mary.

Sends you to tell the others,

Stay for us, O Mary.

Wait until he’s gone.

We will leave when you do.

Monks in coarse habits,

Chanting for chastity.

Then, in Cathedrals,

Red-capped Cardinals,

Remembering mysteries.

Now, black-robed Priests,

Chastened, subdued,

Fighting for holiness.

Adam’s apples shifting,

Baritones, tenors, basses,

Asking a Woman for help.

Hail, Full of Grace.

Hear, Queen of Heaven,

Pray, Bold Mother of Love.

Three words treading together.

Allies marching into war.

Enlist them.

Command them.

Train them to be true.

Deploy them to the tired front.

The battle shifts.

Shields and swords are lowered.

And then, a truce.

Time to tend the wounds.

Manufacturer is indemnified.

This product disrupts dominion.

It creates odd alliances.

Target self first.

But exercise caution.

A child might be hiding there.

This product contains sarcasm.

It could include sneers.

Reserve the former for rare circumstances.

Never use the latter.

Discard both when children are nearby.

This product disarms bullies.

Put on enclosed armor.

Defend your company.

Launch items with restraint.

Children might be barricaded there.

Use often for best results.

There is no customer service for this product.

Stopping for stones and sea glass shards

Some clutching a hand for safety

Others testing the rims of vigilance

Older boys walk with bouncing steps

Catching up with a father’s shadow

A ball in a mitt or Pokémon hunting

In unlaced shoes that squeeze too soon

Young men walk with slouching steps

Earbuds blocking a torn and tired world

In low-slung jeans and laundered boxers

Hoodies up to hide their lack of stubble

Midlife men walk with pushing steps

Late to work, late for dinner, too late, too late

Bodies show their denial of Memento Mori

In eight-pack abs or billowing beer bellies

Old men walk with shuffling steps

Hands clasped behind backs or steering walkers

Reliving a basket at the buzzer or front porch kiss

Yearning for that first car, and the last, lost to history

I hosted their motley company.

Some royals, but also some commonplace folks,

Some unwashed pirates with raunchy jokes.

A few raised glasses with smiles to sneers,

Their bonhomie drowning out jibes and jeers.

The best adorned the caves of my heart,

Engraving the walls and tunnels with art.

But I ruled the stories in that jostling horde,

So no powerful one claimed the title of Lord.

Me—and my throb of delight.

Who proves a peculiar love?

You—in your solitary splendor.

Me—with my quiet strides.

Who confirms a commanding kindness?

Both of us, sweetheart, in a sure symbiosis.

Made for this moment.

Meant for each other.

Heaven knocked fire and air askew—

Sent flames to kindle the tongue and brain—

Wind to fountain the news like rain.

The Son, sprung forth from out the grave—

So a longing Father could seek and save—

So tribes far and wide could hear and see—

The Spirit came dancing, lavishly.

I bend to breathe the air around you.

The heady fragrance sweetens the pause in my pace.

I chose and planted you.

I watered your roots.

It is right and just to receive the beauty of you—this morning in May.

He’s stuffed them with disks made for tribal warriors.

Two jeweled rings dangle from his septum.

His scalp is shaved to display skull bones.

Dragon scales needle across one angled cheek.

A declaration swirls in indelible ink: Conquer.

The wordless temple belies it. See me, it cries.

I take in the beauty of him.

A breathtaking child.

Ravenous for a loving gaze.

For tender questions sung like a lullaby.

For a cerulean cloak of welcome.

“I’m hungry too, Querido,” I tell him, as he steams a perfect heart of milk on my latte.

He smiles and says the scones are to die for.

Those lines I had to draw around my dignity,

Carved into the corners of my face?

Touch them gently, love.

I will, Lord.

On rainy days, when D minor songs play,

Old aches of unmet desires

Throb in my joints and bones.

Be tender with them, love.

I will, Lord.

When I’m travel weary,

Salt of sharp farewells

From years gone by

Can sting my tired eyes.

Give them to me, love.

I will, Lord.

Thundering thoughts

Tossing the soul of me

Waves of worry

Hurling the heart of me

Drenching desires

Drowning the strength of me

Up he rises

Palms outstretched

Be still, he says

And I am quelled

A poem, eight lines, seven syllables per line, in honour of the church’s eight days of feasting at Easter, called Bright Week in the Eastern Orthodox tradition.

We learned the Sound of Music,

Seven notes and home to doe.

A crescendo of triumph,

Voiced by bass or soprano.

Ma trilled ragas in Bangla,

Sa, Re, Ga, Ma, Pa, Dha, Ni.

This Bright Week, death defeated,

Singing, from sadness we flee.

We walk in the dawn.

Spears won’t fear our quiet huddle,

Here to tend a body.

As women do.

But weapons have fallen in the lilies,

The stone is anchored to the side—

The cave looms open.

We cry out. Clasp hands.

As women do.

His body’s gone.

The sun gleams on the horizon.

We shield our eyes.

Call our loss into the void.

As women do.

And then—

Strangers, coursing with light.

Voices, sure and strong.

We run, sandals raising dust,

Bear witness.

As women do.

Restore him to friendship with the Three he left behind.

Take Eve’s trembling hand.

Bring her to where your Mother waits with gentle eyes.

Let them walk again in the cool of the day.

Heads high, strides strong, laughing, listening to birdsong.