Two Tables

We slide into our places around the table
swift and silent as brush strokes
and the paint sighs as we
conform to the image.

The year is done. We lay out its contents
on the table – a keepsake cornucopia:
drink deep the honeycomb
of the name we share.

Oh, holy night! What joy, what rich honey
swells from the tongues of unbound hands
and unfurled lips. Wreathed in holly
and spruce, the orange and red hues
of the Blessed Virgin and Son stoop down
to share our bread and wine.

How odd that Grandfather’s stories
of the War to End All Wars
seem so bright, tonight.
How right though, too.

December 18, 2012 // Snapshots

Nine-year-old princesses’ feet cascading downstairs to wake me;

two pairs of blue eyes amid clementine curls smiling, “good morning.”

 

Flashing lights in a rearview mirror syncopated with blood pressure;

I am imperfect; a file with my name on it is hidden in some dark room.

 

Silence broken by unpracticed fingers on piano, but I am home,

and my hands are at rest between the occidentals stumbling through Canon.

 

Barren branches crest the hill, glowing rust in the winter sunset.

I am alone viewing this looking-glass of a highway, lined in oak.

 

It gets dark so early here, with the lights in the tree possessing the

window frames – reflection or reality, does it matter so long as there’s beauty?

 

It’s cold but the windows are down because winter has crept into the air;

and I can smell hints of long months to come laden with ice and fireplaces.

 

The constellations shiver, but they are all the more clear for it;

They look in envy as my key slides into the lock and I am home.

Sweden, Far West

Sweden, far west –

where the lines intersect as they

quilt the globe. Solitude.

Something cold, like a child

born too early,

in December.

 

I am amidst the pine forests.

Have you felt the mountains

breathing between the trunks?

They whisper, Harsh winter.

 

My sister, a February child,

drives westward home.

We are winter’s children,

frost-kissed but rosy-cheeked –

like Christmas, only younger.

 

My finger traces a line on the globe:

February’s homeward journey.

Outside, summer grows old;

I am homesick for wintertide.

Agape

There are no windows here,

or, if you prefer, all are windows.

Continuous glass, crystal walls –

airy barriers between the inside and out.

 

Telephone, in the back room, by the lamp.

A new voice in the receiver;

sounding like Christmas when he was young.

 

(I am wholly undeveloped; my arms

are still reaching for the surface.)

I am glad I am not here alone.

 

Ice has been forming on the panes.

Outside it is winter, like a postcard

from family now living abroad.

I press my cheek against the glass,

if only to remind myself of their faces.

 

What are we if not a single body?

Who are we if not a bride?

When we’ve finally stepped outside,

bare feet in the melting snow, we’ll see,

there never were windows to begin with.

Outside is all we were,

all we’ll ever be.