I believe in messianic
things: self-evident,
pure and natural stigmata,
the decay of fruit, cobbles in streams.
I know where they
go, as I know where they've been,
the way stones rise
from the field, they
float to the top of
the earth without asking.
that time hiking up
the creek to the falls,
we climbed over barbed
wire, and she knew I saw
her cutoff's purple
stain, red thin line.
she's mentioned it
since, one side blushing,
the other daring me
to deny it,
throwing it at me--"See?
I am human!"--
waving the flag.
I've never doubted
that, no. I believe.
we finally found my
great-grandfather's marker,
high on a ridge, chipped
and leaning.
the marble turned
to powder when touched:
calcite white, moldy greens and grey.
we ate pears from
the graveyard tree
and did a rubbing
for her bedroom.
only when the crayon
pressed against the paper
did we see the palace
and chiseled clouds,
and floating above
this hard heaven, an all-seeing eye
like the back of a dollar-bill.
I learned of her first
ten lovers
sitting on a rock
in a dry creek bed.
maybe nothing's proven
by pear juice or blood.
human is as human
does, after all --- bodies aside.
all those flat stones
and no water for skipping ---
it's not the number.
it's the tone of dismissal,
the way I know they
never mattered,
not even when she
told them they did.
well-oiled, she'll
never rust like that horseshoe.
no, not even that
slow, cold fire for her ---
black pool, distant
Masonic eye.
you see, she never
blinks.