Before the cloud eclipsed the moon
on the eve of December,
we have been groping in the ocean
of darkness.
Here, everything breaks into threnodies.
Before the stars split into oblivion,
we walk through labyrinth of little streets
in Judea. For we have learned
that the flesh is a tabernacle
drenched in shells of loneliness
transforming cistern into Marah.
My brother dipped myrrh
into the shallow side of his pocket,
frankincense stuffed into my wineskin,
& my father wrapped gold
on his rawboned:
an oblation for broken elegy.
On the cloud
some men flooded with the color
of snow beat drums,
blast with trumpets in a town of happiness.
A rainbow painted
the threshold of the inn—this is how we find
the footprint of the gateway.
The truth is our cracked bodies
have shape-shifted.
The petal of gods blooms in the child.
Christ enters inside our bodies,
he scoops the lake from our bowels
& burns the threads of sin entrapping us.
Here, we evoke the metaphor of light, sprinkling
fire from our tongues in glossolalia.