I
God has descended,
the jail door has opened,
and I am filled with doubt.
II
I am praying again.
Yesterday,
as I approached the frozen reservoir,
the sun's rays reflecting silver,
I crossed myself,
thanking Him.
I listen to Gregorian chants,
but I am often uneasy
with my hours alone.
When I can't steal more of them,
I am afraid
I'll lose myself.
Life, I know,
is no monastery.
III
The bouquet of relativity
still entices,
but I am intoxicated
by a vision and afraid.
IV
On our bedroom wall,
I have hung a cross,
a beautiful cross of seashells,
(now mostly empty patches
of long-dried glue)
and the body of Christ painted gold
(now chipped and tilted,
one nail missing).
My mother says I cried
begging her to buy it,
when I was eight or nine.
V
I am reflecting
on what I am
silence
echoes in my ears,
like the angry phone I unhook
or will not answer.
I listen for a
stranger's voice.
VI
drunk incestuous pessimism
leers at me
and I leer back
knowing that our
breast-pressing loneliness
is what appalls us
corridors of sleep
still beckon
rows of beds
in overheated rooms
I am often tired
VII
Words are insufficient.
VIII
In my drawers,
I find notes
from some of you, words
weary with silence,
unanswered.
I can see your faces,
hear your voices,
pale with reproach.
IX
I fear you will listen,
will understand,
will not respond,
will hope for a change in my condition,
will think of me as
driven.
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