Intimacy
Posted by Alysia Harris | Filed under Poetry, Print
When the Thunder does not tame
the Tender– that is the measure of mercy.
The fold of a Great God
becoming turtle-dove whisper on ear’s curl.
Dare I cup him to myself
as he has cupped me.
Breath against these dirt fickle lips.
Laying down with night,
my side has been a salted field.
No warmth of struggling spring felt inside my flesh.
I wailed at stones and knew my body
as a ghost knows its graveyard
crowded with longing.
And there amongst the ribs
bent to shepherd’s rods, He planted
a horde of romance roses.
Candles of red perfume.
He spread a feast on my bed
and honeyed my sorrow.
If I loved Him at all,
I would become like the stalks of wheat
braided by His drafts.
Like an obsessing cymbal
whose echoes cannot forget His name.
My devotion ripples and waves.
I wait to become clear.
Who am I that He loves me?
Should a seamstress protect a stain?
Tell the Lord, I no longer hide in shadows
for fear He would overwhelm me.
Fall upon my face.
So I may worship
with evergreen faith
the noon of Your beauty.
