Wednesday Poem

for Anjola

I etch an antelope in marbled wind and pull it out of the cage with the arrow of my tongue. I lay in bed for hours, my eyes stay loud, singing the familiar hymn. Your name feels my ear, colours my brain, ripples and ripples—what can a man do? I unburden the green stone and play your voice and dream your hands, yellow with heat. In the archaic church, the faces are beating against the wall, the fruits are leaping in the basket, blue oil running over Wednesday’s fingers, dandelions flirting on the table. Red deer stand before the altar, their antlers radiant. Jasmine paints the air. The ghosts make love. One, with his teeth, trims the toenails of another; head bowed, as if in worship of this hour. One collects jars of hurt from the belly of one, sets them aside like charmless worries. Some are cleaning a baby grand piano with their fragile mouths. Some are rinsing boneflutes. Outside, short grasses lean into dark water. My heart aches. The days break into verbs of want. God is not quiet. The dead are learning a new language. Healing ears peal like school bells. Brass birds leap over the fence. The music has my heart warped. I imagine holding your hand and cautiously dancing. I imagine braiding the hair you have not grown. I imagine carving a warm, beautiful place inside your bone and there making poems.