Thursday, June 19, 2014

Slicing Onions

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.
Time freezes,
to this
of soul
But you
 are also
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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