Her Blade Flowered Me

Her Blade Flowered Me

I am a figure, a man,
a shadow against the fens
not a figure of race
but a nightmare standing
against the background
lit by a street lamp
poised as if to run

The knife inside me has turned
some Angel finally loosened Her grip
     Her arm tired
     or Her hand twitched
and the blade flowered me
the hilt nudged my spleen
and I cried out in happiness

Come into me, Angel,
come into me and dull this pain
with Your sweet breath
that cools as it burns

Make those small holes
into tearing voids
that blind me to the precious drops
spilling out my nostrils
spilling out my throat

(magnified the fly’s eyes
green then translucent blue
then misty turning back and forth
with the head of course no sockets
in which to rotate
swivel around the dock
     behind a cart
     then over boats
moored to the sand really in Jaffa
Jonah embarked
the fly watching him
seeing it all)

Darling Angel hold me
while I drop to Earth

Cover me with Your delicate
white wings and shield me
from the Holy Ghost
     Who is jealous
     of Your embrace

Don’t let Him steal my spirit,
     don’t let Him take me
     away from You

The way I look at Him
is the way Powhatan watched
Smith emerge from the water
his blunderbuss streaming

(bodies must be bathed
before burial
and our mothers
rub scalps with olive
     oil to loosen
     any dirt
earth over pure
linen shrouding us)

O, Angel, I love You
Your flight has trembled the leaves
     but don’t worry
I can die without You
I can slumber outside Your arms

Wir, ach, der Ast sind und das Eisen
     und das Süße reifender Gefahr

And what should someone expect
     from You
     after they’re born
You wild, ineffable, secretive, two-horned
     and two-shaped or ivy-covered
     or bull-faced, warlike, howling,
     pure

Leave the Bible open
with the head of it turned
to the East for three days
and Your brutal brother
can take my raw
flesh, have feasts, wrap me
in foliage decked
     with grape clusters
--You murderers on trial must smile
     lest You be thought…
--Use the dark green portions of leeks
     in my broth, You givers
     of unmixed wine,
You killers of goats

(lofty pines sway over white
plastic picnic tables
boys and girls play with sticks
and balls off putting the bounds
all short all long yet brief
in the chairs or along the lawn
love green in the weeds
better than gray in the alley)

You of the trees, of the black goatskin
     were these petals always here
     beneath me
You may pour wine on me
     as well

as I hold Your hands
     it’s love
when I hold my hands
     it’s prayer
I feel my fingers slip
through my fingers
when I let go
I want to hold my hands up
up to offer something
because my fingers slip
through each other and flesh
     feels
so much like flesh that I want
to offer something up
up because flesh could slip
     forever
so my hands hold each other
again
     hard
because I’m afraid
and I love Your hands