Your name wounded my lips.
Your breath became my breath.
The ancient absence within me
overflowed with your Presence
like a comb with sweet gold,
but the honey was formless.
The well of my ancestors
was a gash at my heart's core.
Yet sparkling spiced wine
bubbled up from that blackness
when your hand grazed my chest.
Trembling and stillness
have kissed tonight.
Friend, if you want to spill
this nectar of pure joy,
just reflect the One whose
face you have chosen
Be like the full moon.
If you stare at the sun
you go blind.
Lovers take another path
into radiant darkness.
Photo: super moon painted by my iPhone.
Somewise out of loss and fullness,
Abigail elucidates my dust. Her name,
“My Father’s Joy” in Hebrew.
Her power of marvelous entanglement
must surely be the emerald vector
gashing a crocus seed through
wounded snow, her teardrop the
asymptotic curve of eternal silence.
On a twig of cherry she gathers
galaxies to scarlet bud. My eyes
confess to drinking too much light:
I see her in everything. When I
look into an iris in my garden,
amazement impregnates the vacuum
of deep space with the resonance
men call God. The frailest quiver
of her nursing lip disturbs the earth
with a dance named Summer. See how,
bewildered by oscillations of
dark matter in the liquid innocence
of her gaze, she re-creates you.
The double voids of yearning churn
her heart out of blood and breath,
atavistic chromosomes and massless
photons like infinitesimal bells
all shouting the "Yes" of the sun
in her flesh. Now confirm
her omnipresence and remember,
you too were already perfect
the moment you were born.
Collage by Rashani Réa from our book, 'Shimmering Birthless:
A Confluence of Verse and Image' LINK
Because I am neither
"for" nor "against,"
I have outraged everyone
She and I quietly
recline by the stream
eating whatever berries
are in season.
It's a stream we all know,
some of us carried
along by the current,
some of us just watching.
Please don't call me
I respond to mothwing,
breath of raindrop,
thistletouch of purple evening,
mourning cry of mother raven
just as she dissolves
in Winter mist.
If you want the "answer,"
friend, just rest
in the darkening meadow
of this moment,
where the question
Photo by South African photographer Johan Swanepoel