Brushes With The Dark Law

 Three poems to be published in Written Tales Magazine in Summer, 2024.

Limited Supplies

Finally I find
why wounds will
help. I put my hands
inside them, to
prove I am alive,
to verify the divine
in me until
it’s exhausted
and then perhaps
I’ll die in something
that looks like
prose, wrapped
in thin
white linen
as temporary
as skin.
 
Even doubt
has a beauty,
a purpose.
 

Can I Serve You Breakfast?

the ragged wolves return
to collect what they’re owed
 
you don’t remember why
they went away –
you don’t remember what
was promised
 
that day, you know,
their numbers were great,
and they chewed on the hem
of your seamless robe
tied to good news
 
tired of sitting
on a rock by the sea
you only wanted
a good night’s sleep   
to be warmed
by a fire of twigs
and be left alone
 
so you struck a deal --
blessed are the outnumbered
you were not multitudes
they were
but the beatitudes you sold
left outstanding debts
 
sitting between
the wolves’ darkness and teeth --
in the dark fur that would not leave
that singed itself with grief
your hand, asleep
 
grasped the ashy paw
you shook to forge
a new law
to tether wild-
shaming awe
and start the universe over
then open your heart for them all
and spill blood
 
signed and sealed
and scrambled like eggs
smashed and revealed
the lupine revenge
satisfied in blood
 
your blood shed was the hunger
though even a good idea, is only an idea
 
now the pack escapes
wolves pour out of the cut
in your chest
it’s for the best
the brutal rule
you brush against
scratches against the window
with willows and skin
to frame the end of night
 
you and they did love the moon --
and at dawn the sun stops
the tracks in you
 
morning wolves are cranky
they are wet with your blood
and howl at the luminous emptiness
 
there’s not enough coffee
for the pack, but you remember the story
of loaves and fishes
 
and how the baskets filled
as long as the hungry
surrounded them
 
you pay your debts
 

The Longest Suffering

Your depression
is doable. 
 
A quip, a backrub,
a breath chasing the sun
down the spine
and then silence in place of
either correction or
sympathy.
Touching your shoulder
that is so sore
from the grand weight
your mind entrusts
to you
and me.          
 
But anger?
I catch the fire
and we see
who can burn the house
down
first.