This knuckle’s calloused groove has
not forgot (though mostly now i type)
the pen’s round burning embrace. Bumps and buds of
tongue remember well the taste of
bread, the sting of mustard, the crisp cold bite of
the pickle; even they cling to the flavor of
bologna or marshmallow cereals, which they have not
seen since youth.
Rough and ragged lips cannot misplace
the memory of softest pink your cheek, of
most delicate curve and hunger of your
lovely lonely mouth. The
taxidermied head was not made to be
on display except on
a neck, in the woods, its body
scampering quickly out of sight, leaving only the
vague memory of its presence.
Nothing made was thrown
happenstance together, compacted at the
center of the singularity’s unforgiving suck,
and set alone in empty space.
Rather all things, all matters, and
all molecules were forged in the
bright warm inferno of the stars, baked together in
love like the ingredients of a
birthday cake, made for
a celebrant child.
As a deer pants for flowing streams, so pants my soul for you, O God. – Psalm 42 : 1