Once

Once
when I was as young and vulnerable
as spring
I ran headlong down the highways
of the cacophony of my confusion;
I climbed the southern mossy trees
of a tangled terror.
I ran with wild abandon through the doors
of sanctuary and sacrament
burying my face in the black folds of a priest's
robe of piety, that hid the penis of a man....
Wrapping myself in the illusion of safety
born in the cloistered cradle of antiquity
and grown into the pious rigidity
of the first century church.
I stayed there and strangled myself
with the strings of a borrowed guitar
until lyrics spilled
rupturing forth like my mother oozing blood and death
all over a strangers carpet.
The frantic fingers of my plucking hand,
courageous and callused played on
until healing came spilling song...
An old priest, the ancient mossy trees,
a rupturing mother, and memories that cling
to link and emerge
in one left over tear down the highway of years.

Reviews

[J]

This is intensely beautiful.

[Ed Hart]

few rise from the ashes, and sing as clearly as you