Dedication

1.

Lost her, sis.

Prayers still appreciated.

Of all the poems,

this one

makes the least sense.

2.

A cry of Good Grief –

   lostness howling

   ripped wombs,
   ancient song allowing
   All
   their forgotten words

-- composites the loom

upon which Time ties

its listless.

Good grief

that pours itself into its tomb,

fills it, that we may

occupy the sky.

Gift of grief,
a slowed transmission
from one palm  

      {even-tempered oil glob

      rich, with lighthouse specks

      turning, in a simple support.

      Ever-tempted into exile, drawn

      there, extracted out

      to sea,        these sparkles

      to mind provide contact

      and firm footing.

      So the farther out we drift,

      the more lights we see,

      ‘til the wise in us connects

      them as one beam,

      defining the edge of our heavy dream,

      outlines with the Cord of Knowing

      the place this oozing grief

      washes clean}

into the other.

3.

Between the hands of Fate

is a puzzle of considerable length,

unwinding in the windsong

    of praise worship,

of hallelujah, of broken-ness.

4.

How long

will we swallow

the pain of

the Forsaken?

I have given / refuge

between these legs.

I have given / the dirt a use

covering faces.

Both begged and ordered,

pleaded and pushed,

-- Onward –

by pidgin prayer and psalms,

by loud-cracking palms,

foreheads against the dawn,

by a billion Women’s songs,

and the Men they leaned on.

Every missile a miscarriage.

Every blessing a bomb.