Every now and then, the wind of a guilt sermon
In passing stained glass or Mary-Janed feet in laced socks
The prophetic hollers of my old fathers, their light,
a little like August, bad jokes, or cupboard dust
lands on me in my way, and brings my thoughts
to the foot of my mother's bed, I see her little ash tray
her polished toes and limp, east-side San Jose hair lies
over a shoulder, in the ninth or tenth spring of my entire life,
inside the kitchen arch, the kitchen of flour hands,
potted thyme and mint in the dirty sill,
or the motor sauce garage, wherein dwells my Saint,
Brother of arms and courage and wine,
my kind of hero, my Rock of Ages,
The fiber glass snow beneath my bare child feet
Into the books and boys I loved and loved like cheap fiction
the crack of candy jewelry between my jaw and my thrill-stressed eyes
to the bedroom of my blasphemous best friend,
posters with starlet boys, eye make up, so many
small, lousy nights spent missing her wild junk of an
Oreo life, a New York post card on her door and
secrets that drove my strawberry heart mad with envy
late night TV shows and music that sang to lovers only,
lovers and sinners and humans like me,
and then, I revel and miss, and into a valley,
my soul's glow dims and flicks, on and off
With real anger, I look down, and solemn, I know
that hope, I birthed anew every December again,
and resurrected contentment, love, at dinner times
How sorely I miss the taste of swallowed church tears' salt
and the smell of a cherry switch,
and the itch and sweat of obedience and crossed legs,
my homemade Christ.
