Content

Issue 14
Eucharist

      To find that ridge again       — sunfire       — herself
in that moment       — unwounded
/ whole       — October again       — and the woods coloring –
the crickets murmuring conclusions to a summer.
Darkness       — lifting over Hoytville       –
I wake from the Dream’s antiphon       — body curled
too long one way       — wake to the sculpted grey
/ the cicada-pestered elder       / the Sunday morning cant
of end-time pamphleteers.       And wake remembering –
hearing       ( again )       that slap       — like roof metal
and stormcloud       — seeing that streamlined thing
ripped off its chassis       –  and       then
the night split wide       — in the words
we searched       / the fists       we
put to search       / punishing
butcherblock.
 
 
            *
 
 
      Then chestnut dawn       — reckonings       — the devilish
night-winds calmed       — shreds of daylight
meandering out of grey       — And so I plod toward Eucharist
/ thinking Christ       — Mother of Christ       —
as this one flares       — as if alive and whole  again
/ on her body’s raft       — and       one
among us here       –  like a sacred lamp       –body and body
setting weave       — candling these edens
of our daily tasks.       And so I come to think her blood  –
seeping from bone-pierced forearm
and left ear       — Christ       –  and       Mother
of Christ       –  the sun spoiling
that blood       dripping there       to blacktop –
her blouse and brassierre slit –
that horrible half-second of breasts –
again the gasped poor thing
/ the men I stand among
caught limp.
 
 
            *
 
 
      The life-flight lifts       / vanishes.  And       Time
becomes       not there.  And       eyes –
like this priest’s own       — fix landscape’s minor rise
/ the corners bright with cherries
and with seasonal bon chance       — as if that Christ –
like an absolute chip speed       — that
sweet storm Jesus       — crashing       the ozone gate –
swept down millennia       / swept
the windward panes and thrashings now of storm clouds.
I shut the windward panes to coming storm.
And  at the eye of motion       — caught       suddenly
and flush       — my own eyes
quickening       — I behold that hand       –  drawn    
across another country twilight    
/ rebuilding the gardens in our flesh       — and   
 feel its slap-start chill       — and     feel    
the heart where one abides –
there       in the flash       and       leaf-
cadenzas       / the flutterings
and kept breath.