Saturday, August 15, 2015


O, Father of all these curious feet,
of all the motherless ones—
I am the asking sort of woman.

Make peace with my poor spirit,
and my thoughts, wandering this thirsty maze
in search of lullabies and forgotten lines.

How I limp along in looking,
reaching out to receive my portion,
only to return the gift in awkward poses. 

How I hunger for the shaping sounds 
I want to recall from heavenly cradles 
and kitchens gone mute.

How I long to dance away from 
asthmatic centuries of feminine lostness 
in your house of mirrors. 

Be merciful to my pure and wounded heart,
to these mournful wondering thoughts.
Take up this veil and let me see

the doors to all these keys.
Sculpt my meek mouth in spirited language, 
and, Lord, bid me sing the Mother’s psalm.

1 comment: