lift this heaviness from me
as easily as taking muffins from the oven.
Turn my tears to blueberries
in the palm of your hand.
It is no small thing,
to take the thorns from a heart
and make it beat again;
blow softly on my blood--
send it rushing, released and contained
all in the same instant.
Sweet Saint Creola,
Mother of all that soothes the eyes
and restores the spirit,
will you think me juvenile and vain when I say
that I could have been beautiful
had not dark roses used my flesh for earth,
spreading small insistent roots through my very breath
Will you think less of me when I say
that my hair could have been blacker than stars' edges
and longer than the line of Gypsy witches I come from,
if orioles and crows had not nested in me,
using my thoughts to weave
around my dreams
to make their shelter?
Wise Saint Creola,
Mistress of mornings that forgive,
scourge of demons,
speak plainly to me this once, I beg you.
When you touch me with the touch
that I have longed for and not had--
when you sing quietly to me,
your voice calm, holy, and feminine--
I think I must have misheard.
I think I must have been given a taste too sweet
for my wildgirl tongue to take,
when you tell me that you are God's,
and that I am Yours,
more beautiful than
or body can be.