Your hand makes luminaries of my flesh
below red blanketry as
your eyes close, lids on cedar boxes.
The best is seldom shown
and then in solemn times.

The priest above your eyes
rubs thumbs on wafers,
hoping that his god comes home with him
on linen;
the penitenti
grind it with their knees
on floors.

This may be more of you than me.
A bird about to leap sees at his sides
two worlds he has to leave.
He is not flying then.

Kathryn Rantala