Poem Twenty One: Sacrament

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I dream of yellow lanterns

of the sun.

Sanctum Sanctorum.

There’s no room 

beneath these roots.

Holy of Holies.

I am the zero-point.

Where there was a god

filled with the pollen 

of song, there is ash.

A great wind overhead.

A thief who takes

all that is light. 

An offering of my sorrow.

The pith loses weight 

on this earth.

Can we still bear witness 

to how wide the night sky is? 

It is dark beneath roots

and bone.

My golden bangles

removed at the threshold.

The wind carries 

doubt and hope.  

There is no veil to part.

There is no song to sing.

This roaring vastness.

Sacrament of what is lost

or what returns. 

A love letter 

written and sent to lover

who never remembers your name.

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