Constellation of face—what holiness
is this? White sky, four birds left,
layer skin on skin on breath on lake
on that small organ pumping
in your hand.
fog-caked, and you, glass for eyes,
leaking a glare
all over the harbor. Ice chipping communion
A crack and this deepening.
Snow—careful sink. I look,
note one thousand portraits
hang on the walls of your mind.
Lionheart ache. Doesn’t everyone
want to walk off, holding hands with
the fiercely gentle?
You small thing. Smoking shard, distance
blurred. With soul growing toward
water bottom in a rush, you hide to
shatter the deep.
We curious people, nervous,
filling with grace.
Poem by Lauren Bernhagen
listen to a reading of the poem by the author here.