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,
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.”