that God’s victory is ours.
Ordinarily, I squirm through such words,
not wanting to add my voice to them,
but now I sing, Let the mischief of their lips
overwhelm them! Let burning coals fall on them,
stifling a giggle in the shame of recognition.
Who isn’t more at home in this setting
with the sentiments that follow: Too long
I have had my dwelling among those
who hate peace. I am for peace.
The psalmist’s schizophrenia has always made
me crazy, until today when I hear the words
echoing each tone of my soul, see my
ugliness and beauty mirrored there,
asking along with everyone around me:
If you, O Lord, mark iniquities,
who would be left standing?
Attempting Meditation
First, I inhale: May I be . . .
Then the exhale: one with You.
I have no idea what this means.
Thoughts flurry like birds come to feed.
Seed’s tempting, and I chew.
Now back to inhale: May I be
sap pulsing through a sleeping tree
a toddler’s crayon drew.
I’m not to imagine what this means.
Not supposed to think or dream.
Not supposed to move.
Just to inhale. May I be
a fallen leaf riding the stream
that lulls me toward Your womb.
Why can’t imagination be the means?
Metaphor’s the way I breathe,
how I follow Your tune.
When I inhale, may I be
listening for all You mean.
Vermeer’s Lacemaker
There never is much light
in these enclosures.
Nor do eyes rise
to spark a reflection.
The light requires
an eyelid, cheek, lace
collar as palette.
As thread relies on
the sharp eye, the minuet
of fingers, pins and bobbins.
She doesn’t know
how small she is—
one of his tiny canvasses—
or that she is detained,
held still as a fly
in the dried paint.
If she tried to stretch
her arms or stand,
she might flutter
into a tarantella,
batter her composure.
Patient as a spider,
she works light
into pattern, draws
from her dark interior
the single strand
of her attention.
What I Heard This Morning Filling the Birdfeeder
You thought I said dominion?
Oh dear. Let’s backtrack
here a little. As each bird
flew from my fingers,
each whale and finny thing
swam from my tongue,
each beast of the earth
crept into being, I remember
quite distinctly saying,
Welcome to your domus.
They all seemed to get it
and set out to find their rooms.
I greeted you with the same words.
Could it be that you misheard?
Or were you already
too big for your fig leaves?
Or did the error come
when I whispered your mission?
That’s always the trouble
with translation. Listen,
If I’d made one creature
king, wouldn’t I at least
have installed wings?
If I’d meant you to go on
this way, would I have tossed
wings down the dark avenue
of early morning to wait
in the arbor vitae for you,
putting on, one by one,
their sparrow voices:
Wake up. Wake up.
Wake up.
