Holy Ghost

We had no paper

then, or we had

no pen, or no words. How

to say it. We had

no voice. No listeners.

Just deaf night

and the flames that chased us

up the stairs, that

found us

panting, singed. There was

no story then, no

greater myth. It was just

our life. No big

picture. No art

but the Bible. No thought

but that the Lord must have made

some mistake, our souls

in error. We went

into the closet willingly—it was

a game—

as into a time machine.

More in hope                

than faith. In there

saw only starless space.

We prayed.

When I open this door

let it be

some other place.

There was music

though, astounding.

It flowed from the stereo

and filled the house

like Jesus. It was

Aretha in raiment of gold

and Elvis the King.

It flew into us like grace and shook

our spirits loose. We fell

to the floor like change, all

scattered silver. There

gathered ourselves

into swords of light, there rose

and followed the tambourines

into the shimmering

forest-mind

where we could think.

We walked among

the years like trees

and, trembling, came

to a sky-filled river.

Stepped into its rush like deer

to drink, cold wonder

pulling at our legs.

We gave ourselves up

for lost, raised our arms like thieves—

Sun lit the blood

of our fingertips, field sparrows

sang our names—and thus

in rapture

were we saved.