The words were handed down
over space and time
torch to torch
lamp to lamp.
In the darkness
the words were carried
person to person
and flamed forth
when one person reached
another person.
Still so beautiful
whatever the language!
Flames of tongue
reach out.
Whether whispered
or in unison,
whether read silently
or aloud,
words find flame.
Darkness fell
and the word
set the world
on fire.

The folds in the robe
define. The arm
is suggested by the
sweep of the robe,
the sleeve
hollowed from wood.
The arc of the arm
holds a child’s head.
The woodgrain
of the mother’s breast,
rounded, rests against
Joseph’s chest.
The fold in the robe
defines. The turn
in the road is the way.
The vine twines
around the stake.
The fold in the robe
reveals the character
dormant until
the knife carves.
 

The shadows that cross
your face
cross mine.
When wind shakes leaves,
shadows shift.
Light lifts from your face
and reflects off
the curved surface
of bark and bract.

Underneath opaque faces
and the hint of a smile
lie shadows of craters;
beneath the bract,
the flower.

The heart swells onto the page,
the face, the eye;
yet hides.

Face reflects face
like moon reflects sun.
The contours of a line trace
thorn and blossom.
The deep bellows of the forge
breathe into us
like lungs.

For we are split infinitives,
diamond shard,
sparks of the forge.
We are burl and pearl.
Our world,
deep as a stone can fall,
wide as a wing can fly.

It was still November.
A child was born,
my brother.
Since my father’s
culinary repertoire
was slim, my mother,
in preparation for her stay
at la maternité,
had already deposited me
with her friend, a mother
whose children,
teenagers in lycée,
no longer believed in miracles.

One day, my mother’s friend
took my hand, and walked me
through Marseille’s twisting alleys,
to a church. Here
we descended a steep staircase,
dark as a cave entrance.
Even so, light reflected
off the glass partition
between the stairwell
and the display,
whose mysterious contents
lay shrouded in mystery.

Then my mother’s friend
removed a franc
from her purse
and deposited it neatly
into a machine
like a parking meter.
As she turned a lever,
I observed a miracle:
Lights flashed on
like angels appearing in the sky.
A mechanical whirr
accompanied the lights,
like the buzzing or humming
of a spring.

I was credulous,
trusting as a peasant,
as I saw the miniature fishmonger,
the carpenter,
the water bearer—
whose water never spilled,
the chimney sweep—
whose chimney dust
was painted on with a fine brush,
all treading lightly
toward the crèche,
bearing their gifts,
the fruit of their labor.

Even now, I find myself
depositing prayers
like coins,
as if to turn a lever,
expectant
of a miracle.

Little wonder the prophet spoke
of a coal burning his lips.
Word spreads like fire
and embers are carried from
neighbor to neighbor
coal by coal.
Even now our lips—
in new tongues—
mouth the ancient prayers.

Around the stable
stars cartwheel.

A woman steps
from the inn

Potato peeler in hand
to enter the stable.

As she approaches
to gaze at the infant

Potato peelings curl
at the foot of the manger.

The hay lights the crib
in all directions,

Scattered strokes of yellow
swirl.

In the background,
Joseph and Mary,
quiet onlookers.

Their bundled child
draws all eyes.

Even Vincent is here
painted in the corner.

His red beard
catches the eye,

Clashes with the canvas.
A dissonant chord,
his signature.

Love lit my wick.
Now little deaths gut me.
Steadily hand over hand
down a rope I go.
Eviscerate me, fire.
Let my flame wax
as I wane.
While my spine juggles fire
and breathes flame,
I am at my wick’s end.

Keep watch.
My wax wells and melts.
Like a trapeze artist,
I radiate heat
and spin.
I am a live wire.
Love lit my wick.
Pluck me now.
Watch me flicker
as I fade.

We love dawn
because it is
so much like
our own awakening,
such a slow stretching
into the light.

Birds fly
with bones
that are hollowed.
This is the hollowing
time, the giving
over. I have
nothing left
to give you
save my marrow.
This is the hallowing
time, the season
of holy. I
can offer only
the blank page
of tomorrow.

What a puzzle
it all is.
Find the right word,
the focal puzzle piece,
and suddenly,
it all fits.
A leaf suspended
in air
floats
towards the dry riverbed.