Night in the Kitchen: Poetry Fragments

Night in the Kitchen: Poetry Fragments

 

 

Blessed are you,

Lord God of creation,

who does not guard us

from the work of your hands.

It is good that we are supple

It is good that we are fragile

adaptable and strange

among beasts

that we may continue

to be always remade.

For You have forged in white fire

the red of eyelids,

the cave of the earthquake;

You have set hominid-kind

among the vastness,

stoneground in waters

in alluvium loam

 

 

The body capable

like a canyon–

arms open

 

 

Night in the kitchen,

me sitting on a stool by the sink

while you wash up the last dust

of the light

Miles later, end of spring,

remembering the bed we have shared

and the air is warm and damp with rain

a pre-waking flood,

rising steam

 

 

Turn in toward

the path of the arrow

that you, with shields of

protection, will let

open, splitting,

the old wounds

of the warrior’s sting,

the nettle’s good venom

letting medicine in

 

 

the wingbeats of Sophia

whisper to the ground;

Her wisdom in the Aves’ taxa

knows no vertigo,

Her course unbound

 

 

Every small moment in worship

through some willing element of matter,

a word, a stolen kiss, a skirt of gold,

a bird diving or falling

from the vault of the firmament.

You could not have learned

any other way

the road between

here and another.

 

 

the eyes of the telescope

the mirror of the wonderer

the bowl of celestial milk spilling–

whatever comes out of my wondering

is the same as the prophets’ own.

Pristine spilt milk is so light,

let it fall like a flood

every ten thousand years

the great void percolating

into my living room,

to coalesce with a big bang

this second, somewhere

 

 

Holy fire settles

the continents in magma–

shifting nerves of Hades

 

 

Rosehips of the Nootka Rose,

the names of creatures, created order–

stars on the forest floor

 

 

Now it is time

to go from here

to leave and leave behind

the bundle, setting down the weight

of your years, time to put away graves

who are at peace in the ground

and what the long road

behind you

remembers.

 

 

Squall line,

white bark pine,

I go visit in my time,

long time

skipping out

 

 

 

 

poetry by Amber MV compiled 7/31/2017. Written all over the place 2012–2017.

image source: Creative Commons CC0. Please support the Public Domain and related freedoms.

Published byAmber MV

Amber MV holds a BA in Creative Writing and English from Southern New Hampshire University and is a graduate of Anake Outdoor School at Wilderness Awareness School.

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