Beatitude

Beatitude

Old lover, would you
Listen
To the hissing like a snake in the mown grass,
To the holy repetition?
The blessed confrontation often unsaid.

Upon my table,
Your word is my bread.

Blessed be the accusations never mentioned.
Blessed be our sacred, wounded
Silence.
Listen,
Teach me to kneel to the truth of your taste.

Soon there comes a sudden
Wounded sunrise to waken the forgiven,

And God in our noon of darkness
Seeing in a tide of sightlessness,
Eats our sin once more.

Lover, lifelong friend,
Betrayed
Over and over again.

Such things always whispered like a beatitude.
Such a holy, holy food.

-J Hemersbach