This Is a Poem

This is a poem, hanging

on the wall, speckled in color and crisis:

Words aren’t enough—

How do you describe the texture of your inner child’s placenta? How do you describe the descending light, the sound of its glittering, a glowing orb, an orator with no throat?

This is an invention, dangling

from God’s golden needle, threading a garden of delights, daring to catch the eye, wet the body, fashion symbols out of animals and dreams, hemming and hawing and praying and prancing to the one true Music: spring’s laughter, summer’s moan, a mother’s melody.

Look around at all the letting go: there is love abound, transcendent abundance.