246 Spiritual poems

You have installed a voice that can soothe you:agents of the eaten flesh, every body a cocoon of change— Puparium. The garden a birthing house,sarcophagidae— And green was so dark in the night-garden, in the garden's gourd of air— green's epitome of green's peace, the beautiful inhuman leg-music, crickets' thrum— a pulse to build their houses by, each successive molt a tent of skin in which skin can grow, the metallic sheen of their blue backs as they hatch out, winged and mouthed— Like in a charnel ground, you sit and see. In one of the Eight Great Cemeteries, you sit and see— How the skull-grounds are ringed by flame, how they spread out under a diamond tent, how the adepts pupate among bones— saying I who fear dying, I who fear being dead— Refuge field. See it now. That assembly of sages you would have yourself build, to hear the lineage from mouth to ear, encounter the truth- chain— Saying,Soft eaters, someone's children, who gives them refuge from want— Cynomyopsis Cadavarena. On every tongue they feed.

A ward, and still in bonds, one day I stole abroad; It was high spring, and all the way Primrosed and hung with shade; Yet was it frost within, And surly winds Blasted my infant buds, and sin Like clouds eclipsed my mind. Stormed thus, I straight perceived my spring Mere stage and show, My walk a monstrous, mountained thing, Roughcast with rocks and snow; And as a pilgrim’s eye, Far from relief, Measures the melancholy sky, Then drops and rains for grief, So sighed I upwards still; at last ’Twixt steps and falls I reached the pinnacle, where placed I found a pair of scales; I took them up and laid In th’ one, late pains; The other smoke and pleasures weighed, But proved the heavier grains. With that some cried, “Away!” Straight I Obeyed, and led Full east, a fair, fresh field could spy; Some called it Jacob’s bed, A virgin soil which no Rude feet ere trod, Where, since he stepped there, only go Prophets and friends of God. Here I reposed; but scarce well set, A grove descried Of stately height, whose branches met And mixed on every side; I entered, and once in, Amazed to see ’t, Found all was changed, and a new spring Did all my senses greet. The unthrift sun shot vital gold, A thousand pieces, And heaven its azure did unfold, Checkered with snowy fleeces; The air was all in spice, And every bush A garland wore; thus fed my eyes, But all the ear lay hush. Only a little fountain lent Some use for ears, And on the dumb shades language spent The music of her tears; I drew her near, and found The cistern full Of divers stones, some bright and round, Others ill-shaped and dull. The first, pray mark, as quick as light Danced through the flood, But the last, more heavy than the night, Nailed to the center stood; I wondered much, but tired At last with thought, My restless eye that still desired As strange an object brought. It was a bank of flowers, where I descried Though ’twas midday, Some fast asleep, others broad-eyed And taking in the ray; Here, musing long, I heard A rushing wind Which still increased, but whence it stirred No where I could not find. I turned me round, and to each shade Dispatched an eye To see if any leaf had made Least motion or reply, But while I listening sought My mind to ease By knowing where ’twas, or where not, It whispered, “Where I please.” “Lord,” then said I, “on me one breath, And let me die before my death!” Cant. chap. 5. ver. 17 Arise O North, and come thou South-wind and blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out.

The first time I touched it, cloth fell under my fingers, the frail white folds softened, demure. No burn, no combustion at the touch of skin. It sat, silent, like any other contents of any other box: photographs of the dead, heirloom jewels. Exposed to thin windowlight it is exactly as in movies: a long gown, and where a chest must have breathed, a red cross crossed over. The crown, I know, waits underneath, the hood with eyes carefully stitched open, arch cap like a bishop’s, surging to its point.

What was it like, God of mine, what was it like? —Oh unfaithful heart, indecisive intelligence! Was it like the going by of the wind? Like the disappearance of the spring? As nimble, as changeable, as weightless as milkweed seeds in summer . . . Yes! Indefinite as a smile which is lost forever in a laugh . . . Arrogant in the air, just like a flag! Flag, smile, milkweed pod, swift spring in June, clear wind! . . . Your celebration was so wild, so sad! All of your changes ended up in nothing— remembrance, a blind bee of bitter things!— I don’t know what you were like, but you were!

Here, I am blowing this little stream of blue vapor into your parted lips. Here, I am placing my hands on your chest in an X while my red nails distract the crowd of impostor lifeguards closing in. Here is the place to raise the tent, I can feel it in my bones. The snake has perfected his skin, he is ready to be lifted and passed. How did I do it? The process was messy, I’d rather not share it, but look, look at us now. Lemon drops and cherry bombs. It’s the eye of the tiger, went the song I used to sing in the basement alone.

Vodu green clinching his waist, obi purple ringing his neck, Shango, God of the spirits, whispering in his ear, thunderlight stabbing the island of blood rising from his skull. Mojo bone in his fist strikes the sun from his eye. Iron claw makes his wrist. He recalls the rites of strength carved upon his chest. Black flame, like tongues of glass, ripples beneath a river of sweat. Strike the island! Strike the sun! Strike the eye of evil! Strike the guilty one! No power can stay the mojo when the obi is purple and the vodu is green and Shango is whispering, Bathe me in blood. I am not clean.

Yes, we'll gather by the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river. They say it runs by the throne of God. This is where God invented fish. Wherever, but then God's throne is as wide as the universe. If you're attentive you'll see the throne's borders in the stars. We're on this side and when you get to the other side we don't know what will happen if anything. If nothing happens we won't know it, I said once. Is that cynical? No, nothing is nothing, not upsetting just nothing. Then again maybe we'll be cast at the speed of light through the universe to God's throne. His hair is bounteous. All the 5,000 birds on earth were created there. The firstborn cranes, herons, hawks, at the back so as not to frighten the little ones. Even now they remember this divine habitat. Shall we gather at the river, this beautiful river? We'll sing with the warblers perched on his eyelashes.

Think of our blindness where the water burned! Are we so certain that those wings, returned And turning, we had half discerned Before our dazzled eyes had surely seen The bird aloft there, did not mean?— Our hearts so seized upon the sign! Think how we sailed up-wind, the brine Tasting of daphne, the enormous wave Thundering in the water cave— Thunder in stone. And how we beached the skiff And climbed the coral of that iron cliff And found what only in our hearts we’d heard— The silver screaming of that one, white bird: The fabulous wings, the crimson beak That opened, red as blood, to shriek And clamor in that world of stone, No voice to answer but its own. What certainty, hidden in our hearts before, Found in the bird its metaphor?

The river stones are listening because we have something to say. The trees lean closer today. The singing in the electrical woods has gone dumb. It looks like rain because it is too warm to snow. Guardian angels, wherever you're hiding, we know you can't be everywhere at once. Have you corralled all the pretty wild horses? The memory of ants asleep in daylilies, roses, holly, & larkspur. The magpies gaze at us, still waiting. River stones are listening. But all we can say now is, Mercy, please, rock me.

No longer interested in evil, the soul turns on its back at the watering hole, kicks its muscled legs. Everything goes neon pink and green in the noonday sun when I press my thumbs to my little black eyes. My snout, wet with its own abundant grease, smells nothing of threat, of consequence. I put my hands behind my head, I have no bidding to do. My feet go up on the desk, a woman appears at my side. This is what I’ve earned in Eden. The right to close my eyes when the camouflage trousers come wading through the apple blossom’s slough — and the dream of myself as a baby emerging from the mortal body, hoof by gleaming hoof.