this is not a poem [or, notes on disordered love].

For now, we see through a glass, darkly…

1 Corinthians 13:12

somewhere between the breeze and brisket,

the lime and the laughter,


i realized that there are moments in which

i speak of the Poet,

but i really mean the poetry.

i have some new words,

but the struggle is old.

now i can talk about things like

sacraments, sacramentals

–and even mean it–

the divine in the mundane,

the twitching tip of a finger when

grace is more than ordinary, when

i can hear the humming Song.

at their truest, they are a communion.

other times, it seems

i’ve learned to love

how bright it all is

without turning to the Light.

“We surely made too small a part for God in these things…”

–Aurora Leigh, Elizabeth Barrett Browning