Pache


In the core of your heart
is a black hole
where fierce immaculate silence
drowns the opposites
before they can escape
into creation.
The lesion in Christ's side
is a vulva
leading to the kingdom
of the unborn.
Words we use like
"left" and "right,"
"doing" and "not-doing,"
"suffering" and "God"
are cinders in the air
after a cremation.
Worlds bubble out of your loss.
Immerse in this wound,
this bee-drowning cup,
where the nectar of pain and beauty
co-mingle in one flavor
,
and the vintage of love ferments.

Deeper than sadness, deeper than sin,
the darkness you have fallen in.
No words, only ashes.
The poem keeps starting over.
In the core of your heart
is a cauldron of swirling stillness.
The agony of Spring,
the passion of petals in a bud.
No one can imagine their sorrow.
Neither retribution nor injustice
have any meaning here,
The portal is an infinitesimal
bindhu between breaths,
and wine pours from the gash
in the ribs of the dead poet, Jesus.
You try to rise and fly away
but sink into a secret well of prayer,
your tiny feet, your wings
dragging you downward
through the sweetness
as you struggle to make
a humming sound
but cannot even say,
"Thank you."