Seal up the Thunder
Suffrage to Water
Oh water, that warms us
and dissolves us, oh medium
of our chemistry, oh breaker
of our bonds, oh drowner, oh sac
of life, oh maker of borders, oh grinder
of stone, oh thunderstorm,
oh frost, oh falls, oh storm surge --
spare us. From the slosh
of the jug, spare us. From the sting
of salt, spare us. From the lonely hish
of traffic, spare us. From hail,
from ice, from wave, spare us.
From the dredging of lakes,
from the grinning lip
of the well, from losing our names
like river in ocean, water,
spare us. We praise you, water,
your weathering patience,
your thickness in lungs,
your wholeness in drops, your selfless
displacement, your ceaseless swing
of sea. We praise you, water.
Source and mouth, we praise you.
Remember us, water.
Well and pump, remember us,
blood and lymph, remember us,
flood and dam, remember us,
comet and icecap, remember us.
Remember us, water, oh maker,
oh changer, oh restless, oh universal
solvent, oh born
in burning, oh breath
of stars, oh fine
and swirling
snow.
Leah Names her Sons
I knew I was marrying bitterness --
knew he wouldn't want me, weak-eyed,
too old. For my sister's sake
he rolled the boulder from the well,
her sheep he watered, her throat
he kissed. My father demanded
seven years' service as a bridal price
and put stones in my mouth
when I would deny his plan:
a night-wedding, a heavy veil,
and Jacob too hasty even
to steal a kiss. He took me
in darkness and joy and called me
Rachel, Rachel.
And I answered.
Of course, I did. I knew I'd get
one night's tenderness, one dawn's
sleepy smile before that look
of stunned despising. He spent
a second seven years my father's shepherd
to get Rachel. Slept out with the flock
most nights, or came, manure
matting his hair, his back as hard
as baked clay, his thrusts
brutal. I bore him sons,
and named them
see, a son
named them
prayer answered
named them
my husband love me.
But he did not soften, went always
to Rachel, by then sister-wife, her womb
empty as a used-up well. My boys.
I named them
sing praise
named them
just reward
named them
my husband exalt me.
Jacob, you found in me
a salted country, a line of bitterness.
The old gods gave to women --
too old, weak-eyed -- a witchy power.
I would use it, Rachel, to set a stone
into your womb, to name you
mother of weeping, name you
comfortless. And father,
night-bargainer, slave-maker, a stone
on your tongue, dust for your thirst,
and the border of my country,
stones, stones, stones.
How even the holy cover their faces
Then Abraham reached out his hand and took the knife to kill his son. But the angel called to him from heaven, and said, "Abraham, Abraham!" And he said, "Here I am." He said, "Do not lay your hand on the boy or do anything to him; for now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me." And Abraham looked up and saw a ram, caught in a thicket by its horns. Abraham went and took the ram and offered it up as a burnt offering instead of his son. Genesis 22
Deanna Laney, called by God,
gave up her children. This is not a story. Testimony:
How she woke near midnight and took the oldest first
onto the lawn, how the sprinklers came on, how they ran
to the rock garden. How she had decided
on stones.
How the Lord put a stone at her feet as a sign,
how she put a stone in the crib
as a sign, how a baby's head fills the hand
like a stone, how sleep fills it with heavy
decision, how she woke near midnight
with her heart filled up and heard: it's time,
it's time --
How she heard it first when the baby
squeezed a frog, how gold its eyes bugged out
clear as a message. How he toddled to her,
stone in chubby offering. How his name
was Aaron. How her boys were Joshua, Luke,
and Aaron.
If the ministry of death, says the Word, came in glory,
how much more, then -- How God sent the ram.
How you can't see why, she testifies. You've just
got to. How in scripture, they say
Here I am.
How her boys were Joshua, Luke, and Aaron.
How she took the oldest first
into the garden. How she
smashed. How she pulled
the body by beloved feet
into the bushes. How she looked
for the ram. How her robe
and white pajamas. How her wet feet
and hands.
Bone Pastor
Bone pastor, panis vere,
Iesu, nostri miserere:
Tu nos pasce, nos tuere,
Tu nos bona fac videre
in terra viventium.
--St. Thomas Aquinas
Christ our bone pastor,
our bread, our wound,
Christ who told the woman
weeping at the tomb
Do not hold me.
Christ the king of thorns,
of mustard seeds, lord
of buttons, of palms
and donkeys, dust-caked
and thirsty. Emmanuel
with us in waves,
in dishes, in nails,
in the long drag
of water from the well,
our hands rough and shoulders
aching. Wonder counsellor,
lord of the covered eye,
lord of dragonflies and
contradictions. Lord
of the lopped-off hand,
of the single-hearted, lord
of lions. Let us live
in our bodies until
we are buried, come to us
like phosphorus, burn us,
change.
While the Earth Remains
"While the earth remains, seedtime and harvesttime,
cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night,
shall not cease." -- Genesis 8:22 (God's promise after the flood)
Let there always be
taxol and chamomile, abnormal
pap smears and little shirts
with red snaps. Let there be fish with ginger
and green tea in the evenings.
Let there be months with nothing
but mac and cheese.
Let there be days when waking
is a heavy weight, a thickness
breathed in. Let there be weeks
together like this, weeks of sourness,
and then one dawn
in clean frost, the lawn cut
and smoking. Let there be ticks
in the saskatoons. The one
who picked saskatoons with me
one summer far from either of our lives
writes to say she cannot write or speak.
Let there be a lamp for her,
lasting oil, a little salt. Blessings.
Equinox today, the fall is coming.
Juniper dusty blue with berry, sumac
blushing. The tattered cherry
blooms again, a few bright blossoms.
Is that hope or hopelessness? The fruit
will never set. The flocks grow restless.
On this day the year is hinged like a door
with no closing. Let there always be
the gates of morning, the gates of evening.
Wheels. All creatures walking.
Let every thing take its right name:
rice and paper, salt and beans. Let dust
remember skin or desert, let dust
film everything. Oh Lord, what comes
between us? Dust and thirst,
a lack of patience. Shyness.
There's skin at least, and a secret
I don't know I'm keeping. What name
does it have? Shame. Eden.
While the earth remains,
let there be spareness, winter
with one hawk, and no hiding.
Let there be Junes jampacked, choc-a-bloc, thick
as berries. Let all the graves have names.
Let us pray indifferently, in fear
and whispers, let us pray and be blasted
open. Let there be garlic, chili, coffee,
the salty and sour, sweet and bitter, the desperate
and dappled, the morning and evening,
the over and over, the first day.