Thursday, April 26, 2018

abound in the midst of oceans

Olympia is sobbing on the front porch
of the townhouse—
it’s been too long since she’s heard
from her favorite Golden Mouth.
She’s looking for the story
which will make sense of her soul—
a tale she’ll tell herself at bedtime,
a lullaby to spell herself from broken
into whole.

A new John sits across her in the sunlight,
witnessing her face crumple into chaos:
pain stinging from the living loss of logos
adrift without a principle to organize or rudder—
Olympia’s at sea in her own story.
Her suffering’s for naught if there’s no place it can take her.

John wrote her in her letter:
I’ll compose another melody,
a new song which can make you,
angelic harmonies to spur your
springtime purge of dust from dark
winter house-holds of your heart.

But the melody is flat,
the golden is corrupted,
stale Eucharists are offered—
we eat agape meals of mold,
hard leaven of sweet philia
gone cold.

New John watches with such love,
hears the discord without alarm.
His eyes read her heaving shoulders,
speak to gild a silver sob:
can you not see, Olympia?
Christ is in your scandal,
bringing meaning to what’s fractured
in your life, through his own.

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