Grace

sitting with you by the river

i had a vision of us

as elderly

still wrapped in one another—

            do you think the water gets attached?

i’m talking about molecular emotive

            where water meets itself

            in the spiraling void

            of trash vomit

                        some bum bottle

                        spinning counter-clockwise

                        in the midst of all chaos

                        churning purple grey

                                    the color precisely of clouds

                                    before an eastern storm.

it’s humid here inside of me

            the forest bellowed inward

            because you are a mountain range

                        your shoulder blades

                        the dragon head

                        the end of its tail

                        tied to my spine—

it feels as if i have known you

for a very long time.

the summer is closing

upon our old faces

sinking down between the laughs

crinkled in our crows feet

            developed

            pronounced

            from the steeple chase—

that’s god spitting on you.

the rain is not the angels—

            why did jesus weep?

                        he saw lazarus

and his mother’s birth pain

and he takes on the suffering

of the world—

            i am not a christian

            but the rhythm

            of mass

           

                        spread                        out

over decades                        of sacrificial blood

wine poured down a marble staircase

leaves a memory

of satan’s place in our hearts.

hindu cows are calm

before a crash landing

oxygen masks detached

from the plastic landfill.

            you will chop wood

            i will carry water

            we will plant a garden

                        i want to have corn—

                        is the climate suitable in colorado?

you look forward to winter

chickory            huck                        and alpine.

the meadow echoes

our neighbors closest

40 acres

sing to our children—

            is it strange that i have known you

            for 20 years?

today we are young

yelling words for deaf people

whispering in the graveyard

to jane doe who shares a grave

with her lady lover

            a car crash in 1955

            is an alarm clock

            for the court house

            in 2012 we were 23

                        and counting the memories

                        of life we have yet to meet

                        washing our feet—

                       

                                    is satan on our sticky side?

i will not say we are better than him—

perhaps homeless is the way to go

but i’d rather have a bed

to make with you some mornings

when we have retired

and are raising sheep

            herding our flock

            through valleys older

            than god’s word

                        worth its weight in hand grenades—

for how could we be any other way?

i will keep to you so long

as death smiles at us in calm affection.