Cherubim and Seraphim

The thoughts of angels must be soft
and whole and ripe.  They lift
with the wind and settle
at the feet of Christ.  They think
of the stripes that healed the wounds
of earth, the lovely pink string
of time, the constant beating
of wings.

burn

We lost everything in the fire...
the blanket your mother made,
our wedding pictures...
things that proved we had a history.
Out on the lawn,
we held each other and gazed
at the process of loss.
My eyes flickered thru the flames
and focused on a single point-
a metal lamp- standing stiff and alone
as the hot color licked up around it.
At dawn, we walked thru the skeleton
of our house
and cried and cried,
as our life lifted in the wind
like moth's wings.

I remember the morning you left.
I heard you sing,
heard the see-sawing of the rocking chair
kiss the floor and pull away again.
I washed the calico-blue bowls,
letting the water ripple lazily over my skin,
listening to you in the next room.
The mid-morning sun was already sneaking
between the trees as I watched a bee dip
into a lily and bumble back out.
At this moment, I was full and hopeful and whole.
Within minutes, you were gone- lifted from my life
and carried in a box to the field down the road.
I was empty; missing parts of myself.
You didn't sing; I couldn't listen.
I burned your chair,
broke the bowls,
killed the bee.

In the beginning was the fall-
the split of wood, the sever.
Together, we screamed and covered
our bodies with hair and leaves
and hid from the explosive steps of God.

We are now a puzzle-
the pieces which He chisels and saws.
As a worn out creation, we raise
our hands to protest the pain
and hear the roar,
"This makes you whole".

my husband, my wife

Under the hazel moon, we swirl
into one another- with wonder-
we extend our arms like trees
toward each other's face
and touch the pink lips
of eros.