She sleeps on a bed of heritage roses,
Awakens to a whispered
invitation -
Come unto
me
Her ears cup the words
as she tries out her mouth.
A rusty bugle nests her
sleeping-bird tongue.
In the space of her
silence she hears other voices,
each one a withering accusation
-
You knew…
You did…
You are…
She raises the bugle to
her lips, the bird flutters its wings –
But
But
But
I knew not…
I didn’t…
I am not…
Fear rustles her story
into silence.
On a gust of the blue
wind’s holy blowing, the invitation returns unwearied -
Come Unto Me
The bird is weary, the
bird is weak.
She places the bugle in
a glass curio,
secrets herself in a pleasing
summer hat.
Shovel in hand, she loses
herself in the heritage roses.
No thank you, I’m fine.
No worries.
No trouble at all.
Don’t think a thing of
it.
It’s nothing.
Really.
Nothing at all.
Come Unto Me
Against the scandalous
invitation she cottons her ears with feathers,
waters the hat with
burgundy wine.
Sleeping, working, planning,
sleeping, working, planning,
shoveling through the
years, hoping to earn her voice.
Come unto
Me –
What perseverance, what
faithfulness in this long-suffering invitation.
The blue enhances, the
holy blowing pursues.
But still, as fears
silences a song
she hides in hesitation,
cows to worming rumors -
confusing her past,
obscuring her futures.
Come unto
Me –
Struggling to go up, she
falls down,
down to the floor of
herself,
right through the door
of herself,
backwards, sideways then
onto her childhood knees.
Unabridged, uncondensed,
she lands on the edge of
what-could-have-been and
what-can-still-be.
Come Unto Me –
Retrieving
the bugle, releasing the bird, she makes her reply.
I hurt blood.
I’m weak wax.
I white flag
surrender.
Come Unto Me
Easter
morning she awakes to the scent of lily-clad words,
She
rests in her beautiful ruined story.
The
current of myth takes stock of the truth
And
judgement heels its curse at the cross.
I am
I am
I am
Your
Rest.
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