Oil and Myrrh



There is no simplicity
in the motives of another man

How she’d never hear the sound of her own humming

Could not contemplate the slices
of an orange, of rind & flesh

Understand earth
through the soles of her feet

There would be music
made only from machines
the monotone piercing
an electronic origination
not from the hands of humans
or the skins of animals

And the touch of wires and tubes
would impress themselves deeper
than the touch of fingers
save one thumb

slick with oil and myrrh
In the name of the Father . . .


We tell ourselves differently
but there are only two worlds

One inhabited by the hubris of men
the other of spirit and ancestor
of those who find their wisdom beyond a grave


She could not take the same breath we take
to recreate creation in the simple wind of her chest

Men make machines
so they can live on
but life is something altogether different

To taste on the tongue
is a gateway
a communion
an unearthly understanding

A rhythm steadied for a song
that tells the world
the sun sets in the east