and then

It is not a falling -
no one is bruised
no gut-wrenching thrills

No one is falling -
it isn’t an accident,
and it's not a shame, not quite

Think of the Pleiades:
You stare into darkness for a long while, and
your eyes unfocus; while you brood, bored
It begins.
The first one is a startlement -
the next a joy, the third a story to tell but then
the rain of light begins in earnest
And this is no longer the world you knew

Thrilled to silence.
Awed, and distantly fearing -

Falling
In this case
Is far away and soundless
Is holding me motionless
Has stilled me
Will leave me intact
and, hopefully, wiser than I was
Before

my husband is jealous of this machine
the laptop confessional

In his mind the invisible audience of men
perhaps, or the time I spend awake after midnight
not wound in sheets, not blinking into darkness
while he breathes deeply beside me

the adultery of my attentions

he has threatened to destroy the object, using
I suppose that force all men resort to
when confounded
because I get bored so easily, in front of
the TV
and his definition of family time
is grouping

and my eyes are more easily focused
on the fine print, when I'm alone
and the room is dark
so now I wait

up all night, lit from beneath
sitting in a hard chair
my back to the bedroom

setting the table

one cup times 26 or 39
each holds perhaps three thimblesfull of wine
set like jewels around an empty space
a veiled cipher, cradled in its tray

the blood of Christ is shed for us
and caught in a plastic shotglass

in the uncooled sacristy, the summer vine
turns dank in stale neglect; no one declines
dispensed the night before, cheap by the case
still consubstantiates to save by grace

no drop is wasted; when it's done
you funnel it into the bottle, or drink it down

------

food shelf (draft)

a young mother
listens with wide, careful eyes
to the new rules:
if you woke up before 7
with 2 kids under 4
and no man,
you must present yourself here
between 11 and 3.
bring proof of address.
you get 15 pounds
per adult 18 to 54; and another 15
for each child over 10,
and whatever we can find
for the babies.
get here early.

people who come for food in pairs
and small groups
stand straight, make eye contact -- together they are the people.
it's better if they front me a little, count the cans.
it's better if they say, beans again?
I don't need these -- no peanut butter either,
no instant potatoes and no damned rice.

this is what i eat at home;
but what i give
the people leaves them hungry,
because they have
no choice --
and we call that empty place
in their stomachs
incentive.

by the way

I've recently posted a handful of poems written over the past 3 years. Many have been edited several times, others not at all. Over time, these poems, some of them, will be culled entirely.
JS

north (draft)

To the conundrum of love and its bearing on faith,
To the point of lost bearings, in proximity
To truth, to home, to vast ignorance and cruelty –

Two idiots in motion, and the space between;
I know that there’s a God behind this somewhere,
And I tremble.

things unseen

Talk to me.
Fill up the empty Why
And bridge the dust-shot void.
Maybe a thousand words replace a gesture,
Millions to approximate a touch,
But try.
Breathe on my hands;
There’s nothing written to prevent this.

tell me anything,
even what you saw on TV last night
and as you speak I’ll see it all:
like the blind see
in every increment but one
so that
like a chair wedged against the door
the Why is yet held back
by facts surmised
the longing filled by faith
in things unseen