God asked Moses if he
believed in manna from heaven.
Moses couldn’t answer. His once-famished mouth was full.
Jesus asked the disciples if
they believed
in water turned to wine. They countered not,
their drunken lips unable to
form syllables.
Bhau clamored for a
wine-soaked heart
and a truth he could neither
do nor say.
Where he ended up is between
him and his Beloved.
I sought, apparently,
spiritual intoxication.
You left me punch drunk and
reeling,
bruised and (a bit fearfully)
begging for more.
To say we are on the path is
a trick of language.
The path is in our chest,
above our chronic stumbling –
unfolding, enfolding, up and
down;
twisting, turning, shaking us
loose
from our ineffectual
pedestrian gait.
O child of God, as a child Jesus
was gentle with you.
Meher, to your great fortune,
has taken off the gloves.
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