hydrogen small (1 of 1).jpg

I know, I know
You told me already
You don’t believe
You don’t believe
In Aphrodite, Thea,
Our Lady of Liminal places
And the moving heat
Where skin touches skin
Or her not-so-empty spaces between
After all who can rise from the foam
Now, really
You don’t believe
In ghosts, ectoplasm, apparitions
Or any half-seen
Leftovers from previous banquets.
Ridiculous to watch for
Rags of sorrowing grace
Caught in a swinging door
Like the belt to my sweater.
You don’t believe in
Love at First Sight,
That’s obvious,
Eyes over the moon,
Hope in the throat,
That uncanny recognition of
The One, waiting
Beside the brie with mango chutney.
Fine, then.
You don’t believe in
The Virgin Birth
The Second Coming,
Or even a First Coming,
Although, I think it was obvious.
Not the Book of Mormon,
The Book of Ruth,
Or Cowboys.
But you have faith in Hydrogen
The number one,
And other unlikely associations.
The private life of spheres.
The precise comfort
Of this Hydrogen, a colorless, odorless,
Invisible, (but highly combustible) matter.
Oh, right, yes,
Yes-- now there is a believable
Plasma for you.
Certain of magnetic attraction at least,
--positively charged or the other way--
You have no problem accepting
Dark reactions, water splitting,
Solar winds and star formation.
To me it is just more Goddess foam
Rising on the high molecular seas
Moon shreds at the attic window
I give up

Swan Songs