Sunday, June 17, 2018

My First Language is Anger


A saint stands with palm to the heavens, birds nesting at the edge of his reach.
A saint conjures hope from the bottom of the box, feathers brushing his chest.
A saint opens his mouth, prayers and mockingbirds flock to the sunrise.
A saint with his back to me, with his knees to the tiles, arms, voice, heart
Rising like the dove, telling me the land is there, green and growing and waiting.

He speaks without dogma, his only habit his jeans and t-shirt.
He speaks to the window, to the room, to the birds he released.
He speaks to the storm and the flood and the collapse.

His faith rises on the spiral of my heat, on the unsolid cliffs I scream beneath the clouds.
His faith rises above the heat, into the solid softness of the clouds.
His faith rises above the palpable invisible.
His faith rises.

Sharing this poem this week with The Sunday Muse for The Muse #9. Sometimes--or many times, actually--it helps to see someone familiar in the template of the extraordinary. Although the pronouns in the above reflect what I see in the image (a boy reaching for a bird beyond the window), they shouldn't be taken as a limiting statement on who the saint could be. 

Best wishes for a good week of reading that shakes out all the dust and leaves you lighter than before. :) 

-- chrissa 

1 comment:

  1. Love the repetition in this Chrissa, and the rising faith and hope that comes with the progression. so utterly perfect for the picture. I love it!

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