Bedtime Poem

 

   

Rest ever so gently now

guided by a scent of myrrh

from the tower of voluptuous

silence inside you.

I speak of the Magdalene,
that stairway of spiraling night

in the frailest bones of your spine.

No, do not ascend, but go down

into the sacred underworld

of your body.

Penetrate the dark

energy of absence

and find a mysterious sepulcher

in every pebble, every stone

hollow as your own throat,

a cup of Christ's blood

in the first Spring flower.

Taste the bread

of the highest world

in a plum bud.

Her Spirit flows not from above

but out of the sod

into your naked feet, consuming

your marrow in a green flame

that undulated in your hollows

before there was light.

Now gaze through your vertebrae

into a trillion stars.

Or are they

reflections in a deep well?

Stillness knows no distance,

no above or below.

Let this breath be a kiss

like the kiss of your father

on your mother’s belly

before you were born.

Are you not the healer

your own prayers have summoned?

Are not your soul’s

most ancient friend?

Sleep now, all will be well.

Just let your heart keep

smoldering with love,

a coal of promise,

an ember of yourself.