The Drowning Moment
is when he of the Mount of Olives
whom you believe keeps the night watch
catches you by surprise with a wash over your spirit
like Baptism, when he suddenly exists de facto
as you are walking, just as you always do, on blood-
red carpet toward a priest who will place in the palm
of your hand bread for which you are the supplicant,
when words you recited by rote only moments
ago become alive in bas-relief as solid as
sentences carved in stone, and the song you were
humming softly to yourself because you have
always loved the melody resurrects the white-
robed schoolgirl you once were in a long ago choir
stall. Those words, the familiar music,
forever tugging at your heart, "O saving Victim,
opening wide the gates of heav'n to man below,"
amaze you with such a sense of otherness
that you are like the angelic child in front
of you who has fallen fast asleep, certain
of the safety of his mother's arms: Body to body,
warmth to warmth—trustful of the lanyard.
Then, at home in Sunday calm, the chameleon sky
is an uncomplicated azure, no cloud in sight
(though marshsmallow cumulus delivers
its own delight). Beyond a lakeside screened-in
porch, three ducklings navigate their outpost,
becoming more and more adventurous,
their every paddle sending a V for Victory,
trailing in their wake toward the Watcher in the Rye,
while a platoon of turtles periscope the surface
with an inquisitive why? And, nothing, but
nothing, interrupts the anhinga, drying his wings,
outspread to the sky like Jesus on anguish
on the cross in these moments so
sublime, you gladly, but gladly would
go under for the third time.
is when he of the Mount of Olives
whom you believe keeps the night watch
catches you by surprise with a wash over your spirit
like Baptism, when he suddenly exists de facto
as you are walking, just as you always do, on blood-
red carpet toward a priest who will place in the palm
of your hand bread for which you are the supplicant,
when words you recited by rote only moments
ago become alive in bas-relief as solid as
sentences carved in stone, and the song you were
humming softly to yourself because you have
always loved the melody resurrects the white-
robed schoolgirl you once were in a long ago choir
stall. Those words, the familiar music,
forever tugging at your heart, "O saving Victim,
opening wide the gates of heav'n to man below,"
amaze you with such a sense of otherness
that you are like the angelic child in front
of you who has fallen fast asleep, certain
of the safety of his mother's arms: Body to body,
warmth to warmth—trustful of the lanyard.
Then, at home in Sunday calm, the chameleon sky
is an uncomplicated azure, no cloud in sight
(though marshsmallow cumulus delivers
its own delight). Beyond a lakeside screened-in
porch, three ducklings navigate their outpost,
becoming more and more adventurous,
their every paddle sending a V for Victory,
trailing in their wake toward the Watcher in the Rye,
while a platoon of turtles periscope the surface
with an inquisitive why? And, nothing, but
nothing, interrupts the anhinga, drying his wings,
outspread to the sky like Jesus on anguish
on the cross in these moments so
sublime, you gladly, but gladly would
go under for the third time.