THE CHURCH IS SINGING IN THE SNOW
for Max
A skateboard will get you there,
swerving in curves through
long, slow loops. The ride
not the destination your mantra.
Some rushers choose the Tube,
others the bus. I like to walk, fast.
Sometimes, late, and late at night
I flag a cab. I’m Point A to Point B —
twitching foot to foot behind you,
texting, making calls, squeezing
out a smile. It’s a lie.
I do mind how long it takes.
I have gone down the yoga road,
meditation, medication.
In the end nerves fray, and there
you will be, captured by bells
ringing through foreign nights,
lyrics tuned precisely to your mind.
In the end, will your heart be broken
by the speed at which I loved you?
DUST
You don’t have to understand pollination
to know about flowers. How their smells
cling, their colors flash, their petals crush.
If you brought me a rose it meant something.
If you discovered the very first heartbeat
in a star it would be the one in my chest,
the one that turns to dust no matter what.
You don’t have to check the weather vane
to know a storm is coming. Inhale the not yet
wet air. See the dahlias hanging their heads.
Quick, before the first drop, strip so that
when it comes, the rain streams down
your skin, moonlit, into the dirt:
from heaven to earth through you.
Glint Literary Journal 