A boy, Nicholas, shows me a Jack-knife. It’s open. I know in my heart that Nicholas won’t stab me. A boy who uses his knife to kill deer. A boy who cares deeply for his family.
A Christmas in the forest. A yearning to see your family and give them a kiss. In the pasture there’s Syringa, Gypsophila, and Cecelia. A lucky lamb—as Christ is her shepherd—runs happily on the side of the hill. You will find me smiling too. And talking, and sinning.
Holding onto the American paint’s mane, I shut my mouth. I kick forward with both heels and make a loud kiss; The horse canters. Buttonbush and Forsythia. I give her another kick with my outside leg and she throws her head up, braids back and forth, and starts to gallop. The Wild Plum and the New Jersey Tea—little flower I trample over. I hear a country bell. The Bridegroom calling the virgins. And I ride past them and they startle like hare.
There are bravehearts and sweethearts. Blessed1 Cecilia, a bravesweetheart, crosses her heart. I look at her and I see pre-pioneer passion.
Your lamb cries out to you, O Shepherd. In a southern savanna, the splitbeard bluestem breaks and bends like nothing when her back hits the earth. And there2, a circle of girls wait, Indian grass at their waist, for oil to light their lamps.
An almost excommunicated man. I bleed like an ant; And my blood will be drawn like a line. Woe is me3. Ash drops onto the mattress. Ash, feathery ash, gets caught in my chest-hair. And, drunk in my own way, I look away. Like Saint Paul, who also had to look away4.
Ps 30:5
Mt 25:6-8
Isa 5:5
Ac 9:3