Editor’s note:This poem was written about the author’s upcoming marriage. Congratulations Chris and Allie!
strange, dear one
to think of the desert
through which we’ve come.
the snakes which twist into shapes
along horizons far away
and sometimes too close.
become fingers sometimes.
how our clothing sticks to us
flapping in the winds of vast
uncertainty and yet we are kept
and go along anyway,
god only knows how or why.
the violent waves and the wheels
of lashing are not
all behind us. voices which demand
to have us now and always,
say we are drowning
even in the sand. and yet
at the edge there is a hand
which knows the dust
below our feet is also
our skin and our bodies,
the feeling that we are nothing more.
the hand speaks to tell us we are made.
makes us story and song and names.
speaks and says there is an aisle
for us to walk along. right through
the hopeless waves. this hand says
he will be in the promise we make
on the other side. and every altar
after that. dear one,
take mine. we’ll watch and touch
until our fingers are like his.
writing pardons into the sand
to keep the stones at bay.
writing our names again and again.
burying each serpent lie
on the shadow of every step and morning.