I waft into the backyard at 5 o’clock
where a blind psychic senses me before
I sense myself
Her face pickles, her ire
stinks like an electrical fire
She searches
for me inside invisibility, throws dirt
against the air, hoping to hear it strike
my ghost, a blind man’s bluff, I say
here I am
and now that I’m found by sound
she flings stings of anger, gravel sprays
from her motorbike scratching off, I say
you can hit me all you want
and she stops
I wrap my arms around her
hold her in prayer to steady the shake
of sobbing until she’s still and we merge
in a glowing sphere of affection
The crowd
picks me up from the ground, but already
she’s giving a goodbye speech I can’t hear
but understand because I listen
She runs
out of words. Silence becomes a hole no one
knows how to fill
She grabs her motorbike
gives the starter a kick
The bike speeds riderless, swine stampeding
straight to the rich lady’s house
and crashes
through the sidelight into rooms of fragile
treasure
I run inside, the bike’s on its side,
exhausted, a panting tongue that becomes
a guitar strung with bones of a saint I strum
as I sing to you this hallowed song
