Dear God

Dear God,

This is me, again
sorry I haven't called, we have been
out of area. For vacations and the crisping of skins
for the dreadful amount of answering back and forth like a pendulum to someone
with a chair higher, cleaner than ours. For the running and the re-baking of my daily bread
I have hungered for light after lunch and before dinner, like a pitcher
see-through and clear, clear of sedimentation and the clamming of mud.
I am guilty of sleeping in sermons, of using an effective mind
with gazelles, trees dangling of pomegranates and poets and prophets
and poems like prophets hailing toward innocent laps
I seek the scent of a man, in my lungs
like oxygen, taste like apricots his tender flesh
and flush away, like fruit ripening under his arms,
we sit by our dreams and think as the world spins
how could you forbid us fruits you created solely for us?

Dear God,
last night I passed a beggar on the street, pleading for a shot at decency
I told him to answer to you,
when the bread grows moldy and when the ashes of the day turn
arid to the exhalation of sunshine in the evening sky.
to ask you instead of me
for a start at the opposing ends

Dear God,
I have trusted that you will pave the way
give flowers for the spring and blazes hefty with snow for winter
then regenerate summer, like the cauldrons of hell
sharp for the issues we make between noon and night-time
I leave to you the remaking of clay in the pots of summertime

in recent years
I have seen my house tumble, stone by stone
the corners soldered out with dust and the shapes of shadows
prancing round where once I've sat down and prayed
dear God,
as this house tumbles, it is me again
allow me to  turn in my bones before hardening
after the flood
sweeps me in the current
onward

Short versions

With trembling hands she holds, poison
there's a shorter version to the withering
Smoking kills every living thing

Jehovah's Witness: a testimony

Bibles, booklets, brains rearranged into stamps
you seek me to understand facts I already know by birth,
like the moon is grey and God lives eastwards
where there's heat and sunshine
yet He answers prayers in different tongues

the coat you wear is whiter than your skin, porcelain
tall enough to the thrashing of the wet skies
short enough like my doorway patience
You extend a hand, offer me this and that, reading into lines
I know by heart, like arguments I have mistakenly frowned at my mother for making
fragile

I have nothing to offer you even if I tried,
I ran out of bread in the morning
 you stand in the way, there
on the last remaining piece of cement before my house
you repeatedly forget my name
 but remember  what you make of a God,
just salt he fundamentals of faith
pray, fast, obey

the frost  covers the lawn, covers my lame chest
I try to breathe in enough power to decline
the watchtower you mean to set up in my house,
I know holy by tracing the edges and back roads of my city
by wasting an afternoon under a braid
by my blind mother's instincts of love

You convince me with leaving
to warmer weathers when I should show you the distance
between lands and the sky
mention Jerusalem and the walls of Jericho to start
Why would I pilgrimage to the holy cities
when prayer has left
before me, before words
to care and heal, and wander.

The birdwoman in my head

Sometimes she is covered with feathers
sometimes she hails dust instead, but she knows her lines
exactly how to manipulate a head
like saying grace falls true
when you bow towards the rising wind.

Bed conversation

Turn off the lights,please-
I instruct you to leave a space
between us, a riverbank's length
for comfort, for discovery
use enough of the sheets
silk linen or normal cotton to make way for the arms
to drown space for the ears
to hear and let go of the rhythm,
beating, breath that rises and falls
inside, outside

Alright, honey
you turn off the lights, edge then with your squinted eyes
at the new darkness, clumsy to my voice that shows you the way
right, left, top

Easy now
we wade like creatures made for half the water, half the time
and the top half for softening skins
certain that one day this smoldering of silver and iron
will get us closer to heaven- if not possible otherwise

You are ok
Fall into my silence, I tell you
against the drums of envy, of anger, of tiny blocks
we throw like children's legos to pack the floor
tantrums are second nature to hunger, joy and pride
All tucked, arms and legs and chin
we descend onto the darkness, the color of coal

Good night-
we turn our backs,
let's deal with our riverbanks and old rifts
tomorrow.

Why Sam left

Before he steps out to the foggy morning,
Sam lifts his face to the nearest mirror
the briefcase tucks the years
a paper here, a shade of her lipstick there and photos, scattered.
Somewhere between the nightstand and the door he's left
the old slippers, filled with days untended by laden steps
somewhere else, the torn shirt that got caught
like a bird to a thorn, into the flaming grill
there's a lot you leave without notice
old crumples into the background and becomes part
of the picture, a picture painted with objects of endless
ends. Same carries himself out knowing
he left,

He left, because the food comes in cans
because the cans need a crooked edge opener
not everything opens with closure and then there's the smell
of cracking something to gulp
for future references. He left because the smell of fish reminded him
of the ocean, now rocks away-
smothered in iodine and extra lemon for easier swallowing
he left because wine is too much on his stomach
because the discoloration happens mostly on his tongue
where words become squeezed grapes in the sun
he left because of the neighboor's cat, meowing
moaning with grief each morning, missing cans and softer pads
and also because of the baby, the baby's crib that remains
to dust. The music, the soundless sleep among other things
but as Sam stepped out on the threshold
he knew some things are left to rot on purpose,
some others are opened and closed
like  lids, like jars , like morning conversations
food is contained in tin, to  save from undeserving teeth
sharpening for long conversations

If I die younger than time

If I die young, leave my belongings
to the faces I never thought of,
the books- go search the tracks and the hills
for a girl asleep between daisies, and plant, like tulips
papers at her feet. Give the music to the child whose violin strings
were torn by practice and stretches in the sunshine.
Let my clothes feed the fire, where no memory or hue of discoloration
pinches the sight or the plans of others, weary by the lack of serious
Just leave the bones to my mother, she's the only one praying
and leave the fingers to my lover, where by my hands
he will know the ways.