Wild Tales

Wild tales                                                                                       

Some lovers study the structure –

gnawing the bones through

to the wine-drenched marrow,

while others sink their teeth

into succulent flesh, meat and fruit

of torch songs, wild tales;

torn pages and broken spines,

wine bottles passed mouth to mouth –

eyes shining; beards, breasts, lips, chins

glistening, the holy carpet thoroughly,

irredeemably soaked and stained. 

There’s room at the cross for everyone

but, a wordsmith’s observation  –

muscle, pulp and fat soon to wither on the rack,

spoil and sour, to the elements returned,

leaving the corporeal body

to its hardy blades, clubs, cages, pins and flaps;

the fruit to its rinds and seeds, for the seekers, scholars

and preachers, priests and theologians

to suck upon, chew and pick over

in the age to come of the estrangement, the diasporas,

the darkness, the trough and the lone wanderings.

O child of God, Meher’s living presence will become

brittle bones until He comes again to give life to the Word.