Sunday Morning

I cannot imagine what day of the week

that God gave you the weight of his thoughts,

and made you a whole spectrum of beauty;

you pluck the night’s eyes with your eyelashes,

and kick the day in the teeth with your boots.

I believe that it was on a Sunday morning,

when the daylight jostled into a hurry

to open to the sky before brushing her teeth

and freshening up like a pole in the rain,

to wear her stilettos and look gorgeous

so that no bird could flutter over her

without stopping to stand and stare.

It was on a peaceful Sunday morning

when dews that hung on slanting leaves,

trickle to the edges, thick like honey

and poised to drop on scorched heads

that dared shake down the hanging leaves.

On a Sunday morning when the air was oil

in an alabaster filled with blessings

for those who found trouble breathing

when the sky ordered a thunderstorm

or the moon gripped a ploughing spear

to move through the breast of the silent sea.

It was this bluster Sunday morning,

when God extended the winter hours,

to have more time for modelling you,

that you would eat the God in the wind,

and have feet tapering like a goddess,

with a heart swinging in a pendulum,

a fire-eater, a guzzler of flesh and bones,

a replica of excellence, a semblance of decay.