where the story pivots

maybe—

if you’ll spare a minute to consider

a new way to look at old things—

maybe the part of the story 
worth retelling for millennia,

worth turning again and again

through our fingers like beads,

an image we reach for when

ghosts rattle doors in the dark,

is not the scene where the man dies

arms stretched in interrupted embrace

eyes in descent—

or even the vanishing part days later

when grief stands open-mouthed

beside emptiness

maybe the story pivots on each point in time

when we say, drawing breath from the

oldest wells of fear and self-loathing,

when we say,

kill him! we’ll find our own way!

maybe—

listen, it could be true after all—

maybe the second coming waits

for us to shout something else,

just once to decide

not to kill Jesus,

to let him finish explaining grace

and this new way of being he mentioned

Would We?

If this road

we walk,

this flight of quail

frightened from

nests in Eden—

if this road had signposts,

this thirst for emeralds

encrusted with grief—

if signposts

lined this road,

spelling out destinations

in increments

of bone—

would we still go?

A Paradoxical Stew

A paradox is a thing that

shouldn’t be—cannot be—

but stubbornly is.

Though a paradox defies description,

the key is in the conjunction.

Our building code

commands construction

in the material discipline of

or…

                        either this

                        or that,

                        but never

                        both or neither.

But that metaphor is unapt,

since – paradoxically – 

the universe can’t pass inspection,

has no load-bearing walls

and appears to be held up by

the aroma of something

savory and mysterious

simmering on

God’s stove.

And is the essential spice in

paradoxical stews,

the alchemy of reunion,

a common lineage traceable to

star gardens and pantries

too high for humans to reach.

Better not to ask who

plows the fields and

gathers the harvest.

                        Just sip the

                        salty broth of

                        is/and…

                        and live.

sounds we forgot

the poem tricks our eyes

in firelight

moving shadows aside

for that long

and the Beloved is here

the Beloved is--

she is here

laughing

the poem is a morsel

and a cup

left in meadows

for Old Ones

who watch and wait

who watch and wait

for us to

see

the poem is a river stone

holding open

the door to magic

to sounds we

knew once and forgot

once we forgot

she is here

laughing