Slicing onions, then I cut my finger…
It’s not about you, I’m not about you.
(And I don’t even know how to cook.)
It’s my finger that bleeds, and nothing else,
as I taste seawater, and choke on it…
But it’s not about you, I’m never about you.
(And I still don’t know how to cook.)
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
My arms form a chalice: my wrists joined together,
its node; my hands open, its cup. And your face,
like wine, fills its void, perfectly, and I drink
all the world’s beauty, burning in my
palms, your eyes searing my heart.
grains of sand,
slipping through my fingers,
emptying my hands, till only your spirit remains.
* * *
* * *
I believe this is only my second attempt at concrete poetry; the first one, written two decades ago -- entitled "Buildings" if I remember right -- I no longer have a copy of.)
Update (June 22, 2014): Coincidence? This morning at Sunday Mass, my family was asked to forward the bread and wine to the priest, and I carried the bottle of wine, which was poured into...the chalice! And today is the Celebration of the Eucharist!
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