Grail

Heaven rejected me

to sing with Mary.

I was under Him,

the lawn

morning yawn and roar,

mountain mane

heavy in last night

sweat

            dread

                        lock—

stare at Him

while He’s asleep,

            eyes of Holy water.

He’s a wide-open meadow,

a duck and a sparrow

white weather marrow

a feather

a hawk

            circle skyward.

His words have a hold on me

            keep me down here

            watching Him

            shine on me

bold streams between

            the shadows of clouds

on the mountain.

Smile, dear, love me,

            hold me always

and I’ll remember

to change the headlight,

move the valley

and keep singing—

            it’s not for me.

Heaven forsakes me—

            forget-me-not

                        cluster of pure

                        umbrella

the soft petals of my ovary,

southpaw beating

heart between my knees—

            my head is eating me.

I am blue grass,

a boot heel

stomping a wooden floor,

the sawdust, the radishes,

dirt in my nails

compost, eggshell

coffee, manure—

                        makes me think of home,

                        the smell—

O Harford haystack,

carry me tractor pull

mosquito melt the purple lights.

Sometimes, I fear love.

Heaven forgets to hold me,

sings with other women

and swans.

Leda and Mary hold hands

in the dark,

whisper sister secrets

about His flaws,

            how they are perfect

and bloody.

He’s not registered.

He’s an anarchist.

I will praise Him

like I should.

Marry me, Jesus—

            a name preceding

            all sexuality.

He is so deep in me

that man must seek Him

to find me,

            lost

            stumbling through Eden

like a wet mountain lion—

I am more powerful than I know,

more Holy each day

I grow corn,

shuck and boil

my skin.

Heaven gnaws me,

leaves my bones to rot

on the rusty banks

of Lake Meredith—

            erode to sacred dust.

I drift in the hazy place

between atmosphere

and outer space.

I fall over Pacific,

land in Atlantic

            grit

                        ash

                                    and sand

entwined in my hair

tumbling, a child in the waves

under water

circular motion

            Heaven’s great washing

            machine on cycle.

Dry me on the beach

on a clothes line

            the linen

            bleached in the sunlight.

Speak, Heaven,

            teach me how to know You,

Your grace slipping down

between my cries—

            copper deposits

            hide in the crust—

He’s into me.

O Eden, You elude me,

Heaven’s musk

                        harmonium

                        baritone—

hold on, kiss me,

            Heaven.