Held Like This

Mother and Child, by Henry Moore

Held like this, to draw in milk,

no will, tasting clouds of milk,

never so content.

Inside the Rose (2)

But there are those in bodies

who are pure soul. It can happen.

These messengers invite us to walk with them.

They say, You may feel happy enough where you are,

but we cannot do without you any longer. Please.

So we walk along inside the rose,

being pulled like the creeks and rivers are,

out from the town onto the plain.

My guide, my soul, your only sadness

is when I am not walking with you.

In deep silence, and with some exertion

to stay in your company,

I could save you a lot of trouble.

Inside the Rose (1)

That camel there with its calf running behind it,

Sutur and Koshek, we are like them,

mothered and nursed

by where and whom we are from,

following our fates where they lead,

until we hear a drum begin,

grace entering our lives, a prayer of gratitude.

We feel the call of presence,

and the journey changes.

A dry field of stones turns soft and moist

as cheese. The mountain feels level under us.

Love becomes agile and quick,

and suddenly we are there.

This traveling is not done with the body.

God's secret takes form in our loving.

The Taste of Morning

Time's knife slides from the sheath,

as a fish from where it swims.

Being closer and closer is the desire

of the body. Don't wish for union.

There is a closeness beyond that.

Why would God want a second God?

Fall in love in such a way

that it frees you from any connecting.

Love is the soul's light, the taste of morning,

no me, no we, no claim of being.

These words are the smoke the fire gives off

as it absolves its defects,

as eyes in silence, tears, face.

Love cannot be said.

This Piece of Food

This piece of food cannot be eaten,

nor this bit of wisdom found by looking.

There is a secret core in everyone

not even Gabriel can know by trying to know.

Raw, Well-Cooked, and Burnt

You ask, Why do you cry

with such sweetness all around?

I weep as I make the honey,

wearing the shirt of the bee,

and I refuse to share this suffering.

I play the sky's harp.

I curl around my treasure like a snake.

You say, What is this I business?

Friend, I've been a long time away from that.

What you see here is your own reflection.

I am still raw, and at the same time

well-cooked, and burnt to a crisp.

No one can tell if I'm laughing

or weeping. I wonder myself.

How can I be separated and yet in union?

A Door

I have lived on the lip

of insanity, wanting to know reasons,

knocking on a door. It opens.

I've been knocking from the inside.