We didn’t see—we sensed him Black hair, caramel skin, dressed in blue and black Lovely voice, petite man, graceful hand Magically he opened the cake case from the front
Black hair, caramel skin, dressed in blue and black Delighted ladies sighed in surprise Magically he opened the cake case from the front He did it for the delighted ladies’ sighs
Delighted ladies sighed in surprise He said he’d die if he had to… He did it for the delighted ladies’ sighs …Go in from the back every time
Purple kangaroo wine, cheap and bitter Gratitude shouts louder than a flash flood warning Climax withheld for one notch less drunk than this Red solo cup abandoned on the windowsill
Gratitude shouts louder than a flash flood warning Half full of wine–collecting rain Red solo cup abandoned on the windowsill Pajamas and flip flops in a tangle by the bed
Half full of wine–collecting rain God’s body happens where lightning strikes something Pajamas and flip flops in a tangle by the bed Only one window opens wide enough
“…but I resisted the thought of a Czar of the Heavens, however loving His sway might be.” -Bill W., “Bill’s Story,” Alcoholics Anonymous, p. 12
I have chronic PTSD nightmares. I woke up from a particularly bad night—screaming screaming screaming—orange and red death screaming all night—and when I took my pup out for potty, I saw that her pee spot, over time, had formed an unmistakable heart on the pavement. An unmistakable heart with dog plops scattered about.
I sat on the edge of the brick planter box watching her squat, my arms wrapped tight around me, still shaking a little, and I smiled. I hadn’t the energy to laugh, but here was the Czar of the Heavens laughing for me.
How loving is the sway of this Czar that he would draw with his own shining finger a dog piss heart for me while my horror was screaming in my sleep? Pretty damn loving.
“I love you,” says this Czar, “even when things are shitty, and maybe especially then. This heart isn’t drawn around the shit. It’s drawn right thought it.”
Is in the boring section where The bright kids go Bright and boring is the book They whisper over, holy thing Bright, boring, book bound Just like the angels they read about.
Not that I have a hangup about Angels. If only their books were Dark and dusty, we might know Each other better. But I Bet there are boring dark spots Too. I have to bet because who Would know? The spots are dark Dark as a yawn Dark as the inside of a Closed fist. Dark as a book Bound mind. Dark as a priest’s dark closet
Not that I have hangups about Priests either. Or hangups About what they hang up in Their dark, yawning closets
Skeletons on pink padded Hangers, white ribboned Rose and garlic sachets Tied around their necks?
I wonder whether the casket lid is A death trap like those recalled Drop side cribs that snatched Babies into the jaws of death
But if it is a death trap, it isn’t Inappropriate for this funeral Where my little Christ-love lay Blessed barely an age Before being laid to rest with All this ceremony. All this Ceremony. I’m going to miss this And funeral/baptism cake and potatoes Going off into the worldly world Christ-love less. Loving without Magic underwear and ordinations And special water and oil For anointing and dove Down comforters and man— That casket crib was chock full of stuff I think I can live without. I think I think I can live without.
If your hands are closed or, worse yet, clenched, where does your lover lay the present? I wrote a poem to that effect once and it’s quite profound, especially if your lover is Rumi’s THE Lover and the presents are all the good gifts of god.
I have this sort of boyfriend—this man who loves me unreadably as I have shattered his heart many times. Maybe in this unreasonableness for exactly that reason, he is exactly like god. Jokingly, (sort of), I told him he should buy me a new purse because I was soon to be acquiring a lot more stuff—gifts from actual god. I was (sort of) joking, but he said, enthusiastically, “OK!” And I might accept. I don’t want all the sticky little strings that are attached to love-in-desperation presents, but unlike with god gifts, I can keep my fist clenched for this one.
I can keep my fist clenched. He can go ahead and hang my new Hermes bag on my one outstretched arm.
M. N. Ashley 