In my ripening years I am

possessive of the Mystery—

no one else may own the Still, Small Voice.

Let me be an apologist for a glass of water,

for the realness contained on the back of a penny,

caught in its ridges and grooves,

copper certainty.


Do not tell me what Truth is

as though you could describe the backs of my eyelids.

Let me be a mystic of the seen.


Truth rides through the capillaries

in my brother’s feet,

the white cells slowly succumbing.


Once I saw Jesus drawing in the sand,

myself a star falling to earth,

and begged him to only look at me,

implored him to call my name.


Now he is as near as my bones,

and I a vapor in the Cloud of Unknowing,

my name immaterial,

my worthiness unstrung.


When I close my eyes

I see my brother

dancing his infant son across the floor,

singing, “You’ll never find

as long as you live

someone who loves you

like I do.”

What if Words are a Substitute for Silence?