I find my blessings
in his
hip bone & sing
& sing again, tomorrow.
His gender, moon
age softened & feather
to the cry of my given nature.
I am no hope,
I step away from my own prayers
like the silent return of an ambulance.
He is no lighthouse, he is
what becomes of its light —
the rescue, the bell.
Therefore I am movement
& below his chest
I listen.
His eyes are not water,
they are what makes the water
chant
of its voyage, the salt
that licks the boat-rim
into crystal, Amethyst —
how it calms
itself
& then me, & me again,
tomorrow.
He fishes, nets
even the stones
from their groundwork:
sometimes he comes to me half-hipped
& lonely,
skin like afternoon moon-sight.
I make his mouth this way:
pull with my thumb
at his jawbell & ring & ring
for another blessing.
He barks Baby, we have sinned.
Baby, metal again & Baby.
I fall to his feet in thanksgiving,
offer my backbone as a cane
for his tongue.
His mouthsweat holifies
what cross it carries –
if loneliness is a sin,
then we have made it our love.