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Catechism
A fallow season a time of trivial hungers
that gnawed like a hypocrites prayer.
It was a Wednesday, or one of those days,
with sorrow sewn into it like a prison blanket.
He had been unlocked like a gull's beak,
his cry screeched from decades of dust.
“My ghost is in your body Beloved,
no one sees our earth,
the sunset and the ocean
fall into each other this way.
Death me in your moment my love.”
An imago had surfaced,
an image joined to something,
he once passed through or touched,
or noticed not with his eyes.
Under his skin, he pours stars,
black stars, bright stars
the living and the dead are him.
“Death me, as I stand, sit, or sleep,
plant your prayers deep into my emptiness,
drug my senses with yours,
dance me with your insatiable desires,
drag me up, drag me into
this dazzling death by light.”
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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