Every now and then, the wind of a guilt sermon,
in passing stained glass or Mary-Janed feet in laced socks,
the prophetic hollers of my old fathers, their light,
a little like August, bad jokes, or cupboard dust,
lands on me in my way, and brings my thoughts
to the foot of my mother's bed. I see her little ash tray
her polished toes and limp, east-side San Jose hair lies
over a shoulder, in the ninth or tenth spring of my life,
inside the kitchen arch, the kitchen of flour hands,
potted thyme and mint in the ***** sill,
or the motor sauce garage, wherein dwells my Saint,
Brother of arms and courage and wine,
a warrior hero, young Rock of Ages,
at fiber glass snow beneath my bare child feet,
into the books and boys I loved like cheap fiction,
crack of candy jewels between my jaw and thrill-stressed eyes,
into the bedroom of my blasphemous best friend,
posters of starlet boys, eye make up, so many
dark, whispered nights in her sparkling world of
material life, a New York post card on her door and
stories that drove my strawberry heart mad with envy,
late night TV shows and songs that sang to lovers only,
lovers and sinners and people like me-
and then, I revel and miss, and into a valley,
my soul's glow dims and flicks, on and off
with real anger, I look down, and solemn, I know
that hope, I forged anew every Sunday again,
and resurrected contentment, faith, with folded hands
How sorely I miss the taste of swallowed church tears' salt
and the smell of a cherry switch,
and the itch and sweat of obedience,
and the stilled tremor of my legs in
white, hand-me-down tights,
my homemade Christ
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 4:37 AM UTC
Every now and then, the wind of a guilt sermon,
in passing stained glass or Mary-Janed feet in laced socks,
the prophetic hollers of my old fathers, their light,
a little like August, bad jokes, or cupboard dust,
lands on me in my way, and brings my thoughts
to the foot of my mother's bed. I see her little ash tray
her polished toes and limp, east-side San Jose hair lies
over a shoulder, in the ninth or tenth spring of my life,
inside the kitchen arch, the kitchen of flour hands,
potted thyme and mint in the ***** sill,
or the motor sauce garage, wherein dwells my Saint,
Brother of arms and courage and wine,
a warrior hero, young Rock of Ages,
at fiber glass snow beneath my bare child feet,
into the books and boys I loved like cheap fiction,
crack of candy jewels between my jaw and thrill-stressed eyes,
into the bedroom of my blasphemous best friend,
posters of starlet boys, eye make up, so many
dark, whispered nights in her sparkling world of
material life, a New York post card on her door and
stories that drove my strawberry heart mad with envy,
late night TV shows and songs that sang to lovers only,
lovers and sinners and people like me-
and then, I revel and miss, and into a valley,
my soul's glow dims and flicks, on and off
with real anger, I look down, and solemn, I know
that hope, I forged anew every Sunday again,
and resurrected contentment, faith, with folded hands
How sorely I miss the taste of swallowed church tears' salt
and the smell of a cherry switch,
and the itch and sweat of obedience,
and the stilled tremor of my legs in
white, hand-me-down tights,
my homemade Christ
