Hair holds scent like memory.
The fall evenings spent by campfires,
coming home to the empty house, washing the sensory reminder of fellowship and pine down the drain,
but the smell stayed on pillows
Remember smelling formaldehyde in its strands
after anatomy class
and holding the heart of the 17 year old boy
who crashed his motorcycle.
And wondering how many children
the hands of the ancient old woman
held before they stilled.
They were perfect, marble, the nails elegantly long.
I remember how my hair trapped his scent with me.
It smelled like his hands,
like his mouth.
Tobacco and smoke
cool night air and January stars.
I haven't cut it since.
you are a cathedral.
Your ribs rise in vaulted grace,
the nave of your mouth stands open,
and cloister arms,
Your skin's stretch marks
are etched like stained glass,
Flame light flickers in your eyes.
Wonder of time and art,
made by divine hands,
You are more beautiful than Notre Dame
and all her souls.
When the men come to pray,
Do not let them
desecrate this house.
as the bombs burst around you.
You will tremble.
But you will not fall.
Enfold the weary pilgrim
who comes to you by night.
he will say.
And find it, in you.
I am not falling.
I am drifting.
as a feather does on the breath.
There is a quiet strength in this joy.
my heart has not known before.
We stand on solid ground,
though our knees are weak.
The love in your hands
matches the look in your eyes.
beats in rhythm with mine.
There is peace.
One touch to validation.
Love's bright cousin
Passion has entered the stage.
Risen from her dormant hiding place
between arms and ribs.
"I miss you."
The 'm' becomes 'k'
and a 'want' appears.
I heard it.
Passion gets stuck in the drain
you can't wash it away so quickly.
But fade, dangerous one,
A kiss may bruise just like a sin
though sinless lips
have found their mark.
The sin is not a cast from grace,
but oh, in hell, it seems I walk.
These quiet sins God never said
were to damn us, but yet,
that I have damned myself.
With a kiss, a kiss.
I have damned myself.
Because I did not love thee,
yet here, here,
I've bruised thee
with a kiss.
I let beautiful things break my heart.
Acoustic guitars, boys with sad voices.
My own eyes.
Memories of long gone men and
clouds on nights when there should be stars.
Lonely places, and lonely people.
Kind hearts and gifts to freely given.
at all the beautiful mosaic shards.