Whose Streams Make Glad the City of God

word like Water, dripping sunnily like honey
over desert places, faces encrusted with lamentation
and the brokenness of meaning-making,
upturned—crestfallen—to a cataclysmic son
and adumbrations of a fire already kindled.

curses of tongue-rot and barren wombs
undone, unsewed by the Waters of Moriah
the radiance of natal faith
life, life, O son and no more death;
peace, peace, when there is none. to drink

dust and ash for seven days
and whole lives, the whole of life, parched
seeking l’Arche du salut, a country of their own
eyes failing for the son of David—kyrie eleison!
lesions patched with better sacrifices.

produce ye words in keeping with repentance
seas dripping from diaconical pens:
there is a Water greater, O imprisoned spirits
what grace! by drowning in Word
you may be no more, ocean. amen.