She woke me up to see me.
My mouth made an O of my soul.
A silent reason to be born
spoke to itself.
Thighs arched into bridges.
I became a span of my flesh.
My heart beating its blood
into poems.
I can’t get enough of Her.
I howl to be Her holiness.
A place for Her to touch lightly
to tantalize with grace.
I fumble with the
restraints of prayer.
I am urgent,
I am the sweat of Her longing.
We are shipwrecks of a sky
that only She can see.
Image: "Celtic Dream" Martine Jacobs (c)
