Waves. Fire. But not waves of fire, yet.
While… entertaining myself at work, I found myself reading some Anne Sexton. From “Admonitions to a Special Person,” I was struck by the following stanza:
Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can’t be planned, you just fall
into it’s arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
Shortly afterward, I wrote this poem. Not necessarily any relation or causative inspiration, just a tidbit of fact.
Glory
You come to me, naked but for the gold chain and cross.
You said it was I who should have been crucified,
my strong ribs would have held the world better,
broad like a turtle’s back and legs like muscular elephants.
I wonder if it is a competition, between Christ and me.
Like two knights competing for a token, a trinket,
a chaste kiss, but no. I am no innocent dove.
I would not die for your sins, but take them
and forge them into armor for your soul.
As I hold you it is clear I am holding flame.
Worship a poor fuel next to adoration,
you burn so much brighter in my presence, as I do in yours.
An uneven balance, this flicker of passion against eternity.
They will sing the good songs for us:
one life with you more glorious than Heaven.