On Leaving Pentecost
So much depends on: disbelief,
tearing hand softened pages from edge worn books -
to cherish or discard,
the release of strained muscles,
and ignoring the fetid ropes that bind us.
We'll have to snub the bishop,
pretend his accountant isn't screaming
about lost offerings and missed tithes,
avoid confessionals, and sacraments,
give up a whole history of church bells and worn knees.
Ignoring the altar boy's red sash will be our prayer.
Finding comrades in denial will be our devotion.
It's a matter of giving our bone heavy feet permission.
Without it, there is no movement,
no frayed ribbons tugging our hands,
no imaginary tangles to dance around,
no beat of the drum pulsing the air.
No reason to unload the guns
or stop staring at the delicate nature of our wrists.
We'll have to accept the iguana's stone truth,
life isn't what you make it.
If anything it's buried deep in what is not made.
It's found in letting the ink blacken the page,
in the chisel's insatiable accident,
in the dancer forgetting the dance
and still daring to step quick across the cold floor.
It's found in giving up,
allowing the shoulder to become the timpani,
and losing your hands to the noise.
Thirty years of sanctuaries and long pews told me to stay clear
of the world of undulant air,
the forgetfulness and compunctions of liquor,
rooms surging with sweat,
and any bonfire woman of flower petals and perfume.
But here I am bent at the waist,
one knee to the ground,
lacing up a pair of black shine dance shoes
(bought with good church money).
This drumbeat is pulsing my legs,
the tambourine is teaching hipbone and femur.
The worshipers are coming to their feet,
because everybody knows - there's tango to be done.