I have a confession to make.
I am always drunk.
Especially when I have just consumed
a nightfull of stars.
The milky way makes me drunk,
lightning bugs make me drunk,
and at dawn the telltale honeysuckle
at the ragged edge of a meadow.
Tears make me drunk.
Even a sip of your face, the gentlest
kiss and I can't remember
my name.
I go reeling down the street,
begging. Nuns
and social workers try
to help me back to normal.
They discover me gazing into my heart
and slapping my own cheeks.
They explain to passers-by,
'He is not himself today."
But that's just the problem:
I Am.
The sun and moon have given me up
for adoption.
Gravity cannot contain me.
The weight of my body
is a prayer.
Is it my fault I was born
with a fathomless cup
at the center of my chest
where You won't stop
into Me
with every breath?

Painting: Mahmoud Farshchian