with homage to Rumi, the Sufi poet
You, the pollen on the bee’s leg
That made my flower a pomegranate,
You, the haze of yeast on the grapes
That made the wine
That inebriated Shams of Tabriz,
You, who made the clay birds fly,
You, who cleansed the soul of ‘I’.
You, the reason that shattered my logic,
You, the object of my subjectivity,
You, who broke and poured me
At the climax of your mass,
You, the incense that burns me,
You, Magdalene to my Jesus.
You, the laugh that lasted
After I studied you to death,
You, the stone in the desert
That Jacob used as his pillow,
You, the ladder that he saw
Reaching up to you,
You, the dream I forgot in the morning.
You, the lives taken
In your vainly-taken names,
You, the tent of black felt,
Shared by Sarah and Hagar,
You, the DNA
Shared by Isaac and Ishmael,
You, the gay lover
The fundamentalist preacher hid from his church.
You, the road that Rumi took
In search of Shams,
You, the time it takes
To remember you again,
You, the ink I used
To write about you,
You, the space between the words
Of this poem.
