THE CALLING

one

At dawn above the Little White Salmon
solid cloud fills the river gorge
like a white man lying down on a green woman.

The moon is a finger nail bitten off ragged and spat
into a bank of fog.

One hour later, driving away from forest land in an 87 Nissan
two back tires and the crown of my head going bald.
Past Biggs Junction and Moro, Oregon, no more green land.
Out here they dry farm winter wheat and plow the chaff into ruts
that fill with sifted ice.

I am the chaff, my friend.
So are you.

two

We are small as hummingbirds resting on a power line
invisible until we catch fire.

We will lie down  in gutted fields.
Our corn colored bones will stalk the following moon.

You who know the acned face of every acre of land
who call blow flies by their given names

call me.

three

One man hangs on  a cross, muscle separating from bone
grackles waiting to peck the final second of his eyes.

Another man believes he is night swimming in the Gulf of Mexico
treading water warm as blood
while moon drawn shark swim in circles at his feet.

Hell is a heaven for the damned.

four

A man’s heart is a shallow grave
where contracts written in blood are burned
beneath the curling moon.

Forgive me what I do before I do it.

five

This world is like a thought of water
floating upon itself.

When the water breaks, the Mother pushes us out into a dry place
where every eye is a mirror and we live in fear of fire.

six

Six is the number of man
but it is God who prays and God who listens or does not listen
with seven billion pairs of ears.

It is God who turns his face away and looks toward Moro
with the half open eyes of a red tailed hawk.

Every breath expelled with force out of the body
is first made captive, then set free.

The world is too small to be considered
worth the pain of the Mother that lifts it from between her legs
and wipes the blood from its thighs.

Beloved,
these thoughts end when attention returns to the one I love.
Then only you exist and I am satisfied with that.

.

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