after OMT
I am not
Yet another
Voice lost
Among the dust
Gathered in time
Along the railing
Of a choir’s loft;
Come Monday,
Even soft footsteps
Will resound down
The wooden stairs
Into the emptiness
of this country church.
I often hear myself
Sing alone beneath
The constant thrum
Of my heart’s blood,
The omphalos
Of the universe’s
First breath,
Echoing deeply
Within my bones
All the voices
I have ever heard
Like the lunar
Pulse of the sea.
It is not plaintive,
Ululating in mourning
Across breaking waves,
Filled with misplaced
Desire of longing
To be other
Than who I think
I have become
In the eyes of others;
But a soft clarity
Like light, or love,
Stabbing through
The stained-glass’
vague blessing,
washing the alter
as if in blood.
(June 18, 2014)
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