To the Woman in the Next Booth Over Who Hasn’t Shut Up Since We Sat Down

In the garden of your goddess there are no ugly roses.
Nothing with wrinkles. Nothing with spots.
The dew not only rinses, it erases
the stretchmarks left by miscarried songs.

At the gate of the garden, the lock is a mirror
not of the eyes’ desire but of the ears’ –
not a protective puzzle but a waterfall of echoes,
of champagne-light compliments cascading into

a pool that evaporates before it can nourish
the skin of the heart, the spine of the soul.
But also in this garden the feasts conclude
without the hum of contentment, the linens

uncreased, unstained by celebration,
appetite unanswered by blood and blossom
and yet the blur of hunger, insistent as a blade,
will still return to spin apart the lock,

to reach and race toward the immaculate bowers,
so eager to shed the tumble and terror of yearning.

**

Why I Up And Left In the Middle of a Sermon and Drove Out to Sit By a Lake

Last I checked with God, He said,
all y’all need to shut up, suit up,
and dance with Love regardless
of what you think of its dress.