After sunset, as azure deepens into cobalt, I lay
myself down on a wrought iron table, a weathered
appointment to my backyard. It is a quiet wild place
with a simple narrative. Urban born coyotes, at times,
in the distance. Rabbits, always rabbits, ignored
by my dog. Once, an owl. And recently, doves. My gaze
above through undulating branches of ash catches
a clear spot, a free peek at the universe. The afternoon
storm carried away July’s rage that christened our day,
yielding a healing baptism of breath. Cool flows over my
bare arms, down my legs, around my feet. I would prefer
to guide each button until undone, dropping my livery
into a puddle around my ankles leaving me unembellished.
But modesty, even in shapeless darkness, is pressed here
in the suburbs. A red hot star, the color of harlots, of
Magdalene misunderstood, a flashback to the burn
of midday, catches my eye with a blink. What does the
color red have to say about a soul seven times released?
Are there demons I walk with unaware, each one’s
diminution a step closer to the Sacred? Sanguine flowed
from His veins mapping a path. In my bittersweet days
I gaze into a mirror and see the Divine, leaving demons
behind. In my face and yours I caress Brilliance and in
the night sky I am remembered, exaulted in a crimson flash.