The Meeting Place. INTERMISSION.
In the pool of what is, a receptive bather may see in reflection the bird’s eye view of life — the naked details of place, of wind and weather — how one’s being moves in its life’s container, fleshy and common.
Jesus in the garden to the right of me. Mary flocked in lilies to the left of me. A wooden angel with wire wings on the dresser holds a book as she sings. The passions of deities surround this borrowed bed.
Another image flanks the south-facing wall, a nearly naked, haloed Jesus in recline and attended by angels at head and feet. On a shelf above his limp body, a goblet stands among flowers and candles. Cherub faces float in the upper reaches against a blank darkness. An intersection of boards rests at the scene’s base near the crown of thorns, nails, and a slender pitcher. A complete diorama of the tomb, of what precedes transformation.
On a day that began with coffee on the front porch, cows appeared out of the mist like they were walking on clouds. Later that morning, the urgent red of a cardinal surprised me. A spider’s web held to a slim dangle of branches. The web flashed in the mottled light then disappeared as if teasing my need to be certain, stealing my clutch toward possession.
edges between — daylight and dark — youth and age — risk and shame — breeze and chill — guilt and freedom — breath and tear — enough and plenty — weakness and rage — sacred and nothing — between edges
What is this wish to be known, to be done with second-guessing, to lay down the wishbones, to turn toward the merit of the moon, its promiseless silence, where the motherless fatherless boneless nameless suggests symbols, syllables, syntax as evidence for that which is greater than oneself.
The Meeting Place continues next week with Part Eight.