You First
appeared after surgery, descended
through the crown of my head, settled
like a blanket over my chest.
I’d just learned my husband
had a lover. After warming my torso,
you left through the soles of my feet.
I knew, in time, I’d recover.

Scaling the face of Grandfather Mountain
years later, newfound suitor by my side,
a familiar tingle crept my shoulder blades,
announced your presence. Attention,
I’d come to call you. I feigned fatigue,
perched on a boulder and waited
for him to forge ahead before
welcoming the slow flush of fire.

I dared not share that you and I
had floated in meadows weighted
with the scent of lavender; spiraled
through galaxies in a black limousine.
Nor could I speak of how
we once circled the universe
watching souls spark from dying stars.

Then one day on a church playground,
you led me from Texas seesaws
and merry-go-rounds down
into my mother’s crypt.
There we made love.
Afterward, you baptized me
in a pool of blood.

I would have gone mad
had I not heard of
Julian. Teresa. Hildegard.