I woke with your name on my lips:
your fretful smile, your quiet joy
a Prince that cries for his Kingdom, why
he must mourn the passage of his soldiers.
How many were slain the first day?
The second? Did the War last seven days
or seven million years? – how many brethren
were painted scarlet – do even angels bleed?
I woke with your lips on mine from imparting
revelations, the Word and succor, I drink from
your fount, a wandering disciple that only knows
your eyes are malachite, your will Heaven’s glue.
You keep saying that we are strangers, that I
am Icarus, that my curiosity will lead to melted
wings but in my fall came triumph, in my death came
rebirth, new beauty, a chance to tend new gardens.
I woke with your promise on my lips, that we would
meet again, in another life, somewhere in summertime,
some time come harvest, over and over like wind-ripple
water – you waited, I did not know you were watching.
I will carry your torch. I will remember frankincense,
sandalwood, cinnamon, roses, a lion-faced shield, fire.
Our lips meet and the blessing is bestowed on the vessel.
Our lips open and infinity pours out and fills the world