Wash your name across my spine.
Smear a silver scorned cornucopia of paintings
across my shoulder blades.
Give me wings.
Press a leaf of truth between my palms.
Show me color
when I lay my heart inside your chest.
Resurrect the poem in life.
Make music with your breath.
Write down the heavens –
through the bruises that communicate your guarded veins.
Be that close to the spirit.
It is the meaning of words:
This art form found within faces and voices.
Crippled walls that fall down with hunger,
to rot under pine trees and oak sentences.
Like the shift of a sliver from beneath the skin,
up to the surface of the moment.
Like a needle through a beaded prayer rosary,
Or a splintered piece of wood that loved my hand.
Memories have a way with smoke and scar tissue,
The way my whole body wears like an open wound.
The real music is always from within.
Beyond the melody of set chords and rhythms.
I must live and I must die.
A birth mark versus a common brand.
How does one share their soul in a darkened world?
I need a drop of water…
a kiss –
for my abrasions.
Before the sky turns to blood,
from the weight of our own footsteps.
Before the snow turns to salt water,
from the heaviness of our tears.
that you will think of me like a star…
just the smallest flickering in the sky.
A beautiful piece of the light that dies and lives forever.
That you will not remember this skin and these fragile bones.
These old bandages of war ~ the ones we have shared.
When we hear the trumpet sound,
the cathedral bells …
There will be no flesh in heaven.
And you and I will be like angels.
our sins can be forgiven!
This poem is featured in my book “To Hold the Sky”
by Bridget Visser