Turning Blue
A poem about listening for forbidden knowledge.
It begins when we snap the rudder
And push off easily unto the waves:
Unstirred waters which like not to utter
And lap us into some blue grave.
It was then You made the storm,
Always fighting that which feeds You
And snapping at its sleeves til morn.
Even sirens quit sighing when they need to.
When mist rises, and the moon sets,
The stars with no gifts but light to bestow
Keep their noses high, lest heaven upsets
And weeps another flood onto us below.
But still our fetching eyes will catch them
And be the only smiling ones left.
That spectacle will be our evening’s diadem,
The morning and night having cleft.
The waves that crested the horizon
May level out into pastures of blue,
Where black clouds wait grazing,
Under the silver smile’s skew.
Setting sail instead, toward the place
where that last grin fell sideways,
We lay down on the deck, fingers laced
Together as lovers liked to do, always.
I’ll ask the stars why she never frowned
And they will lie as all Angels do,
Waving off questions to the Thrones
On dusty clouds, writing out our dues.
Roundabout midnight we’ll wake.
They will be whispering, we’ll eavesdrop
And be sunk and shallow breaths take
To shore, and by that light count our crops.
While the rest of them freeze, turn bland,
We’ll swallow our secrets like saltwater.
Every night following we’ll sleep on dry land
Under a roof, and heaven’s dark garter.
Hence, we’ll hide from blinking lights.
But tonight we are going to stargaze
With a curious demeanour, no frights,
Turn lips to the heavens, and on knowledge graze.