Dumb

I know how ill-fit the cross is to war

and that I have a thing or two to say

about the two pregnant women we shot

or the village of children we burned

or the jihadist we dragged naked through the mud.

but I am in my home

and gospel fumbles out of my mouth

and onto the floor,

I am inarticulate about these things.

As if complexity ties a string around my tongue

and just as I shape the sound

of a "d," or a "b," or a "t,"

it pulls me into a vowel

and I end up yawning something incoherent but audible-

it might as well be a blessing for all of its courage.

My God,

not a blessing.

Never a blessing.

A New Morning

A new morning
and still the same.
I do not begin with prayer.
It is work to swallow flem
on a dry throat.
There is a water glass
on my bed stand.
The taste of warm stagnant water.

Another Word

I am winded
by our walking towards
all things unknown,
one foot
the other
a breath
then another
and each step is its own walk.
We mark our pants and back
green or red or black or simply
wood-stain brown with freshly attended
park benches when our stomachs are to much to carry.
Other times it is our shoes
and the bottoms weighed down
with salmonella,
road-tar,
gum.
It is always something
and then a something's something
until our lives are family trees
of debilitation.
But I walk
and some days
not so angrily
and most days I wish I could find
another word
but redemption
will do for now.

How to be Holy II

Remember dear,
when you see a child bruised,
beaten by the hand of this unripe world,
as she bleeds joy and hope
until her face is the color of untouched snow
and your heart becomes like ash:
weep God in the eyes
and, if no one is around, consider cursing.

Prayer for the Day: The Second Day after Pentecost

Be gentle with us today
because we have been misplaced.
Somewhere beyond the action,
    after your climactic death and return,
    after your final words to us,
    after the winds of Pentecost,
    after the sermons and the baptisms,
We find ourselves outside of your story and inside our own
    made frail again by our loneliness,
    disoriented by your absence,
    overwhelmed by the work ahead.
You've shoved us out of the narrative
    and begged us to find it again
    because the loose strands dangle about our lives
    and, perhaps, no longer out of reach.

We know why it must be this way.
Only, have mercy on us.

How to be Holy

Remember dear,
when you see a cloud rest a finger
on the brim of our wine-glass moon
and bird-blessed air cuddles
your bare cheek against her naked neck
and you feel the gentle pressure
of your chest deepening
against hers
and your heart becomes like untouched snow,
smile God in the eyes
and, if no one is around, consider dancing.

Only a Father Could Know

Only a father could know
      the eloquence of his infant daughter.
The broad vowels and clumsy consonants
      of her, "I'm glad you're here,"

the half-eyed droning
      of sleep's soon arrival,
and the soft cooed morning greeting
      before she knows she's hungry.

Then there is the sharp shrill sound
      of pain, and the tremendous
weight of caring for someone,
      at once, so clear and unspecific

and I suppose this is to say -
      I want You but do not know how,
and that -
   this is the meaning
      of my silence.