Pache


In the core of your heart is a
black hole
where fierce immaculate silence
drowns the opposites
before they can escape
into creation.
The lesion in Christ's side
is a vulva
leading to the kingdom
of the unborn.
Words we use like
"left" and "right,"
"doing" and "not-doing,"
"suffering" and "God"
are cinders in the air
after a cremation.
Worlds bubble up from your death.
Immerse in this wound
where opposites dissolve
in one bee-drowning cup,
the nectar of pain and beauty
co-mingled as a single flavor,
and the vintage of your love
ferments.

Deeper than sadness, deeper than sin,
the darkness you have fallen in!
The poem keeps starting over again.
In the core of your heart is a
cauldron
of swirling stillness.
No word, only ashes
and the agony of Spring,
the passion of petals in a bud.
No one can imagine their sorrow.
Neither retribution nor injustice
have any meaning here.
The portal is an infinitesimal
bindhu between this breath
and the next.
Wine pours from the gash
in the ribs of the dead poet, Jesus.
You try to rise and fly,
but sink into a secret well of prayer,
your feet and wings dragging
you downward through the sweetness
as you struggle to make
a humming sound
but cannot even say,
"Thank you."