Say it: there was an incident at the temple, he brought it on himself, he did this to himself. Not turning on any lights, making coffee, going outside with coffee: dawn in early winter. Gunmetal sky, the earth frozen. Sunday an excuse for what mode of longing. What can you not let go. Past the horses to the garden covered in frost. A man broke twenty-five spades breaking ground for his beloved who died anyway in the house Love built. The world is a field of graves, every grave is a broken heart. Snow flurries and wind, sheep bawling. Chickadees on the fallen apple tree. Is it praise you're after, is it obedience, is it choice. Toasting bread, frying eggs. The Great Mother prays in our kitchen, the Great Mother naps in our pantry. The Great Mother moans with us on our altar made of moans. Earl Gray tea with maple syrup and cream. She pulls me away from the window, she lays with me naked in our narrow bed. What fits, what is felt. What is freed. A sound the flames make going out. I wanted to hear it one last time, the story about the boy who saves his sister so she can save him and together they can find a way home. I wanted to say aloud, fuck crucifixion, I wanted to build that world, but it wasn't so simple. In Chrisoula's arms weeping, later praying and later yet, sleeping. Turn turn to the rain and the wind. Hush child, close your eyes, the war is over, your father made sure of it.
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