Sitting on their thrones,
the pantheon forged in flame.
Will & thought ensued;
my prototype heart iron-made.
Bronze form but pumping red blood.
you imagine having a casual conversation
maybe he is watching
you are looking
at clearance items online
he laughs at jokes
you always manage
to just miss
he quickly glances
at the computer screen
when you point out
something you like
you imagine a whole conversation
i miss you
i wish you were here
i wish i could touch you
i want you
oh, what i would do to you if you were just here …
and you think
you will keep this distance
just a bit longer
You can’t play the trombone while you’re holding a baby,
the choir director says, as he reaches for the child with his magic hands,
hands that lead us through the songs
in four-part harmony but with one voice.
We sing until the tunes put forth roots–
more trumpet-like here, more vocal character there.
We think tall vowels, line up the sounds, shape the stopping points
until the music becomes the living liturgy
articulating the pain and suffering of Christ. Singing liberates us.
After the last hymn, we float out of the cathedral doors.
“How like a window she has become…
she that was a princess.” (Lamentations 1:1)
Now I only see through her
to what is behind,
after reading lines of other hearts aligned
and beating in bed beside her,
undulating like tides inside her,
she’s no longer a royal vision,
and almost faceless,
save for two pools of blue ice
that reflect nothing
but my inevitable inadequacy.