Thursday, November 1, 2018

turned tables

God, I don’t know where you are today in the grey clouds
of fifty-third and sixth,
but I ask you to be right here, with me:
A young woman sitting on these benches,
offering as sacrifice this needy loser pigeon with a bad hairdo,
and the incense of Halal Guys' gyro meat:
A young woman who can’t quite piece together words,
Or fit together discordant puzzle pieces.

Sometimes we build up castles in the clouds—
illusions we lullaby ourselves to sleep with,
to ward against the stings of disappointment.

Nothing shatters those shallow mirages like the memory—
clear and sharp, like you are right here in front of me,
on fire—
Of your deep and gentle face,
behind which flowers all of earthly paradise.
Of your heart, coming out to meet me in a thousand quiet ways,
Of laughing by the lake at night,
Of your eyes that shine like sparks in stubble,
Of your tender gravel voice, whispering Ave Marias in my ear,
Of sitting together in the bejeweled quiet of a Basilica afternoon.

I think we imagine that God is in the finished picture.
But God is right here—in the shattered pieces we'll one day puzzle back together.

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