I Call Canon in the Rock Cathedral

I call canon in the rock cathedral. I bring chapel to the moss. Angels are playing air guitar, headbanging in the brush. This is today's song:

Grandmothers, take me home. Let me curl up by the fire, cry for everything lost. Tug off my boots, shake your head over the miles. Bring mercy to the corners. Put the trees on the phone. 

The longing hangs on my legs, keening faintly like a tired child. 

Home.

Home. 

Take the A train: a shaft of light through trees. B train: the softening of the heart before sorrow. C, naked prayer. D, desperation. E, if we catch it, everlasting joy. 

Let me get there fast by car, sunroof open, radio on, heat blasting. 

Let me go there slowly, walking through woods, stooping under mushrooms to share forest tea. 

Let me wander in the rain, barefoot and underdressed, my wineglass filling with water, toasting to myself and every other queen. Bring me nose to pink nose with wild creatures, teach me how the dirt sings its unfolding to a mole.  

Just, tell me you love me. That camp will be over, and I'll be home soon. 

I miss you. 

I need a postcard, or visitation.

Call the Holy Spirit for a taxi. Pick me up—the usual. Bathroom floor. 

I've cried longing for so many years, I'm hoarse. Some days I reach for God with only one arm; I half try. 

The longing. It suffuses and evaporates, like morning dew, an airborne tide. 

What do I call for? The moment of crushed petals. The architecture of a pinecone. Always, the smell of the ocean, the mother sound. 

Sometimes heaven is a person's chest—exactly the one you can't get back to. Yearning becomes a glittering red and tangerine rage, a banded firework spectacular. 

Then midnight blue pain. The last colors in the box. The scrape of the lathe as the night of the soul carves your bones. You are made into a work of art: sheared and shaped like water over stones. 

Water over stones. 

Sit and listen. This is the only sound. It is contrast.

Ever since I saw you long ago, I've wondered if you were real. So I called you when I dove into the well. I asked the favors back for every sacred thing I'd ever done. I tallied up every pure offering of my heart. I asked for the lump sum, the granddaddy miracle. 

To ask to be restored to fullness, even for a moment, is to know the contours of your emptied heart. When it happens again and again, you get to know the World. Through gain and loss you learn the Braille of every life-scored heart. 

I ran miles between the threshold of Life and Death. Don't let them fool you. The liminal space is neither a sliver, nor a narrow chasm. It's a fucking desert marathon. 

I know this seems a rambling, slightly-less-than-holy call. But I'm an old hand at this, and no longer rush my walks with God. 

We are waking up, we have overslept. It's the noon of the soul. There's joy to be done.