Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Song of Solomon, Again, Again

If Beloved had a solo
it would sound like the voice in my chest
I think, because
that one bleats
like the goats of Gilead too
and it mourns false
lovers at its door

But I have it all wrong.
The Lover is running
across the hills.
Or does her mind
play light against shadow there,
chasing myrrh?
Her head is a pink umbrella
over the curve of dry earth.

Yes, and it’s raining.
The moon looks romantic,
pulling or so they say
the tide,
blushing, but it’s only light
pollution and smog
they say.
The Beloved believes it is pretty.
The Beloved holds on.

But how? The only faith!
we have is in questions
or exclamations today.
What about her.
She stays low.
She waits.

I can’t tell you how
uncomfortable this is.
You think these lines
make masks
or a cage like ribs, but they
pierce me.
I know neither
whether I please you or the Father
of us but I know I don’t please
myself: This the best comfort
Beloved can offer