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Lord, pledge all Your juices. I come alone tonight
and solitude narrates what my voice sees
in the klieg lights of December. The earth evolves
under its belt of stars, the milk of stars depleted.
A crust of ice forms over a molten sea and I walk
through the white flames of mist, soft as bread
on this night rinsed with the scent of burning tapers.
Do I shake in these public times, glance too furtively,
aware of exposure’s consequence?
I walk and watch the cars. I do not hold the memory
of love. Love does not moisten my heart. Lord, take me
in Your mouth, raise me up. Kiss my eyes as I lift my
head to the wind, to the arrival of strangers,
a noisome choir. Life, the republic of life,
does not bring me back from the dust of its bosom.
My imperfections deny my worth. Beasts prosper
in the vestibule of night. But You, Lord, pierce the house
of my body. Clasp Your fingers over the torn flesh
of our mutual wound.
Copyright 2018 Susan Sonde