Monday, October 23, 2017

A Guide to Physical Intimacy with the Theótokos

Stroke my hair,
but gently, Joseph.
I'll kiss your fingertips,
callused from carpentry,
fingernails worn down
by sandpaper and lathe.

Rest your head on the concave
center of my breast,
a divot formed by your skull's constant weight,
the home you have carved
for yourself on my flesh.

I will sing
Temuná belibí 
softly in your hair,
breathing in
your sweaty scalp's scent.
Your grip tightens around my waist,
fine dust from oak and saws
covering your arms like chalk.

Gently, you cover the bare skin
of tabernacle slipping out from
underneath the temple veil
your fingers tremble with
Joy—desire that is met and yet unmet—
as you rearrange the robe
your sawdust arms have disturbed.

We will laugh
tonight at dinner as we share stories from
the market and the shop,
and your eyes will catch mine then,
and again, as we sing sh'ma
under the sun setting and gilding the
humid Galilee air—
they sparkle—your eyes—
like the air—
with Joy.

One quiet kiss, and then—
to sleep,
God in our flesh
cradled between us

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