I
Mahler whispers to me through symphonies,
Telling me to seek deeper into her static gaze–
Through telephone
Through droning hum
Through disgust.
When I kneel in prayer, my wayward thoughts gather and disperse.
Jesus must have been terribly lonely,
An only child.
And what expectations His Father had.
I heard once that I made God in my image.
I’m sure His nose isn’t that big.
Still—perhaps larger than the world.
Christ was lonesome but He had a brother in His Baptist
And now They have cathedrals named after Them,
Now They have billions of Catholics
And They have me.
And you have me.
II
“She’s not where this life ends,” I repeat till wrought.
Otherwise I’d go insane—
We’d all go insane at
The not having of you.
Her inconsolable absence is now nothing.
Her seraphic beauty is now nothing.
Faux leopard skin jackets and done up dyed hair are nothing now
That I am not there to witness the miracle of you.
But she repeats herself in the glory of His creation.
Every petal of every flower of every tree is reaching out for her,
And the leaves wait above in their lonesome cedar towers—
Yet she will never be here for this monument of her.
She will never miss this moment.
She could never know to want what I have built
With thin pale limbs.
III
Lying in bed I wonder if they had mirrors in Auschwitz.
I could go and see.
They probably do. It would make sense.
I only know what I do from the movies.
So I say: Mine eyes are the only mirror that could ever hold you.
I go on: This chest rises and falls for your being, and so I am suffocating in your absence.
With breaths of lilies and love of life—
What sleep comes to you now?
Now all I can recall is the Christ crucified on the tree He created,
And John, with the soft curls of a prairie boy lost to prayers,
The pool of blood pouring to a point, surrounding the Baptist
With eyes half open in hope.
IV
Along the broad cobblestone roads and brick shoppes,
Lies a small sculpted Basilica in Bruges with the Blood of Christ.
Through the red doorway and free admittance,
I ascended the gilded altar in a uniform line to see
The wine I’ve drank–the proof I’ve wanted.
I stared at Him in the stained cloth for my allotted 45 seconds
And descended to my place.
Two months later I came back to her to find cotton swabs and tissues and towels of blood–
The mountain of dried, brown, motionless gauze in the bathroom trash.
And still somewhere in Palestine,
There lies a skeleton cut off at the cervical spine forever.
Just now, Six months ago, on Victoria St., you laid your book down to rest for the night
And turned off the lamp forever.
V
I repeat after Thee
And I love Thee.
I want Thee
For I am so unbearably without you.
Still, I miss you in a way that is not possible.
Still, I seek you in what you once were.
Still, I think I see you through windows with the lights off.
Still, I pray for some release.
John, if you can hear me, baptize me in belief,
I beg of you to let me love the only Man that can give me life,
To ease this burden and take this yoke, to kneel by my side and give me relief.
Writer To Writer Literary Journal 