Benediction

Abstract

Here's the truth: My faith remainstepid. Lukewarm as summer rain.Spew-worthy. A compass in fragments, I savedpieces: base plate, arrow, needle.Reassembly is beyond me. Millennia ago,I stood on a street corner & thumpedmy brick of scripture. Made my moutha spout. A megaphone. In the forest of nowthere are a thousand pathswith no signs. Where is the boat launch? Where the islandscleaving mist? My feet fallled by whim, by tug. I tryanyway. What I can't nameI name new, siftold silt for any speckthat glitters. What shinesin the palm: bird call, blue eggshell.A breast, handcup of milk. Godhas lived in a stone househewn by men's handsfor so long. I seekentrance to earthen chambers, moundsthat swallow solstice. There I see them,Elohim, female & male, but chooseher: Mother, the hemof her robe a garmentI'd like to touch: her facemy mother's face, her eyesmy daughters’ eyes. I want a godsoft as dough, yeasty, caught in a wooden bowlat the edge of dawn's field, risingon my stove. But, oh—if there's anythingI can expressly say I know, it's this: I bear witnessto my penchant for bitter soil,barren figs. Tending my goats, I make a houseof doubt. I build sanctuariesof sand, altars to unknowing,cover them with my thoughts’intricate lace, upon which I place a nest,a cradle. And yet, I confess I believethis world can't be healed, its bleedingstaunched, unlesswe listento midwives who for ageshave been coaxing forthfrom their own minds our hiddenMother. So let'sready salves, unguents, salt & muslin for herurgent redelivery, what could bethis earth-redeeming,salvific Mother-work.You, Dear Reader, could be a midwife.Who am I to say? Maybeyou already aremassaging perineum with sunflower oil,hands bracing her crown.