Prospective Saint With the Christ Child
Will hands weep? Worrisome.
She’s unrehearsed for a god so young.
Who’s primed for miracles of time?
The one working quantum physics
on a blind man is more guy than man
more magician than holy message
more angry than leads to long life.
All that is was, curved and folding
into holy algorithms of eternity's
fancy script flowing from a fountain
pen's midnight inks, light and dark
folding into stories of quiet martyrs
in split-level homes here or anywhere
anywhere people live people sensitive
to our greatest fear (being loneliness).
And if spirit long last becomes flesh—
what will this young woman do?
Woman, you show your lover your worst
girlish passivity, an incendiary sweetness
teasing her libido each time you approach.
And your petulance at boyish bumbling—
where the evenness and patience offered
those of us who ramble of our importance?
You have such good insights—friends
admire your well-spoken depths—they do.
For her you show no depth and would she
spot it as she flexes a loud brash rendition
of the woman she becomes seated across
a table where you pause for caffeine before
a rayon jacket-sheltered run to the place
you two tumble. You are a couple—
you lapping at cream—her filling the
chipped saucer as it overflows.
from the chapbook Emily Dickinson’s Coconut Face (Dusie Kollektiv)
Sarah Sarai writes poetry and fiction. She lives in New York. Find links to her work and lots more info at My 3,000 Loving Arms.