Apostrophe

See, now You are finally offstage where we can talk.

I can’t see through the drapes and pulleys, it’s too dark

for me to turn them into moss and oaks, too dark

for me to blink wooden risers into a bayou beautiful

in near collapse that once ran a monstrous river into the Gulf,

a scorched stew powerful only in sufficient stillness.

No monstrance, no milagro, no brown scapular scraps,

not even a woven palm frond. Just You and me.

Just me, actually, standing with hip cocked and three

fingers resting on my chin. Not even a naked

household goddess above my bed where I ache

and ache. I hate the Greeks, those bastards, for figuring

You into some kind of flesh—though that cure

is just a start. And the Romans tried, but flesh

must do more than die: it has to live. And here’s what’s next.

Me talking to You in Your most present absence,

without even an apophatic clue. I imagine

Your holy knees gathered to Your chin and Your arms

bound twice around your legs. I imagine Your heart

in a corner beating while You listen to my footfalls

circle from the best damn hiding place of all.