The Glory

The Glory

I make the mistake of showing my hand,

exposing the hole in my palm that bleeds

and never heals but bleeds light, that dawn

white shining from the deep inside

of morning glories.  You look at one blue

morning glory blossom, and it is equal

to the greatest thing.  Each body

on the killing fields, whether burned

or cut to pieces, had that bright soul,

and so I bend to look into the glory

in one blossom and know it stands

for the beauty that cannot be destroyed,

that is larger than the vast plains

of murdered bodies because I can see its

light too in the luminous sky over the fields

of the dead, the dim light in the bare bulb

in every torture chamber, or in the light

of every mind confused with secret fears –

Here, touch the white light in the center

of my blue palm; think of a circle of sun

shining on a lake; or, burning on a sea of grief,

light with the candle of our insane consolation

love’s rebellion, tempered by desperation.

 – The Blue Elephant, August 2013