ana callan

 

Love Spewing Out The Spigots

Love leaking through each crevice
each blow holy hole
each twig leaf flower stem bole
each beak feather wing claw
mole mouse chipmunk
squirrel fish tadpole

Love spurting out its
lack of limits through
every open pore cell
eye nose every finger
brow toe heel spore

Love beside on top of
under inside itself
spilling reeling
pooling out of

Nothing into the
vast appearances
and melting but
not thawing
back – and o how
sweetly – back into
the whole.

 

ONE

When His love flowers through,
I am hopeless but to be His lover
arms fondling every tress
of his creation – the lid
of garbage cans is Him,
plastic flowers I have to kiss,
helpless to resist His
Heaven-scented beauty,
tongue, heart, lips
licking tendril clouds
used-up leaves, mislaid
rings for keys, all of it
is He, He whispers
through the reeds,
In every single thing,
find me. And I do,
stroking, rocking,
holding lost parts
of His body, fear
and loss and greed,
bullets, blame,
disease, all of it
His holy kingdom,
of which I am a vassal
and a fool, stupid
with love for Him,
smitten with the dream
of His entire Being.

 

SHIVA

My Lord of the Shimmering Limbs

My Candlelit Lord

My Lord of Divine Composition

You are the bird in my hand
when the hand is crushed.

You are my freedom,
my truth,
you’re my undefiled love.

All the bells in my heart
and the chains in my gut
are clamoring for you,
for one life-giving touch.

My love is a flood of long nights,
of wild tears and blood.

It is a fire, a fury of flowers
in bud, erupting
in blossom through
the pores of my skin.

Where o where
can I hide now,

My Lord of the Mountain,

My One Lord of White Light?

 

Home Of The Master

I lay down with My Lord
In a bed of yellow roses

And he made silk of my skin.
As I gave my lips to him

He rendered me mute

So my ears teemed
With the beauty of silence,

Of one body twined
Limb to limb

Of light pouring
Through and around us

Like water freed from
Its source

Hair loosed, spilling out
On the air, each breath
On fire with stars.

Who is it is imbued
With the love
Of the Master,

O Host, Holy Host
Of My Heart?

 

Woman Most Loved

Woman of the sea,
come home to me, come to me.
Out of ocean you rose
to flow into freedom.

Child of the sky,
you can fly to me, fly to me
now that your striving is over.

Girl of the earth,
you are flowers and birds.
You are trees in the breeze
as you dream of me.

Lover of the night,
you have cried with me, cried with me
till your tears revealed
stars in the dark.

Daughter of the mountain,
yield to me, yield to me.
I have lived inside
all the days of your life.

Now it is time
to be my bride
so you can sing for me,
sing for me,
sing for me.

 

Altar Peace

It was the summer I had to make two of everything:
pine cones, stray twig, a single floating feather,
anything at all that seemed lonely;
I felt impelled to find its twin, to wed
it to another or back to itself again.

I tell you I made altars of grass inside
the bell of any willing flower, and
they all gave the nod. They understood
how islands called to me, and how I fled.
I made nests of moss for lost cigarette butts,
even dust was given shelter for what was left;
I couldn’t bear one single breath bereft.

It was the year I couldn’t get my arms around
enough tree; I would have eaten it, bark and limb
down to its luscious, saturated root, I would have sucked
its sap like honey—well, I did. My tongue became
a glue that hewed to every blessed thing.
You should have seen me in the loo with a spool
of toilet roll, whispering I love you, I love you.
I wanted the whole world to be married.

I even bought a ring for a bramble of wild rose
who taught me all I know of freedom,
and all I know is that I drank the world
that summer, I drank her whole,
lick by frantic lick, I imbibed her
on the birdbeak of my tongue, leaking
juices out of every holy hole.

And that tree—a sturdy oak—I would
have dissolved right into, a human compost—
offering all she has ever truly owned:
her waste and heart’s detritus,
flesh and brittle bone, the foul history
of a long bad dream, shedding
every sacramental grief until
you couldn’t tell the human
you couldn’t tell the woman
you couldn’t tell the child
from the leaf.

 

August Moon

Moon comes hungering over the tree tips,
warm and rosy from her visit to Holy Mountain,
lusty with love for Him, shining and sleek,
her round heart without edges, all shimmering
she, as she lifts her face high to the heavens
in spasms of ecstasy, unbridled, but bride
to His Highness, toasty and gold, before
slipping beneath his dark garments, shy
lover magnificent, already whole.

 

MAGDALENE AND JESUS: A Sequence

Good Friday

At dawn,
she lifts her arms
towards the sun
and falls suddenly
forward.

At dusk,
she sips three
palms of water,
shivering.

Nightfall, and
she’s chasing
moon up the hill,
frantic for a trace
of him.

The air is silver
dust, her shawl
brimful
of stars.

His body
may be awol
but he cannot
be too far

for death is only
camouflage, as life,
a film of flesh so thin

she can almost feel
his heartbeat pulsing
through her flimsy skin

can almost taste
the lumber of his arms
around her waist

hauling her into
the wood and grit
and mist of him

woundless
soundless
lyric of the heavens

 

Holy Saturday

She misses him
as if she now had only
half a heart

or just one lung:
she can still breathe,
delicately

as if her heart
were an instrument
with strings plucked

at god’s mad whim:
thousands of them
pulling, tugging

hauling up a fishing
net of sorrows

of wild, inexplicable
love to which

she’s married,
lover or not

flesh or rot,

she lives always
inside
the body of God.

 

Easter Sunday

O Magdalene,

did roses sprout from your feet
as he slid into the tomb
of your womaning?

Did all the birds sing
as he chanted a hymn
to rhyme with your
heartbeat? As one hand

bloomed on the secret
sky of your chest,
the other burrowing
down under?

Did God nest
in the wilds of your hair
as you rose and he dipped
into you there

on that cushion of moss,
making liquid of fingers
and air?

Who named it rapture.
this vine of skin and
moisture, this dream
of yoked limbs, this
edible feast of warm
flesh, who named it
love well made
knew well
of what he spoke

and he spoke
only of silence.

 

Them

He is a guest in her heart.
She is his lady in waiting.

He is a red translucence.
She, a quivering bow.

He is gaunt silhouette.
She, sun-infused shadow.

 

Easter Monday

All night she lies next to his tomb.

Seraphim swim inside her head,
which has become a womb
that seems to hold the world –

sky and birds deer and words,
everything but him –

And then the vision:

the garden is a shroud
of light beaming from
his chest. She reaches
out her finger twigs,

which almost meet his,
risen now in prayer, visible
yet not quite there, and the singing

No lo me tangere. Do not touch.

Her breasts a fury of desire,
torched in the lavish fire
of his heart

as she takes back her limbs,
ravished,

and lurches down the hill,
cherry blossom wedded
to her lips.

 
* * * * *

Relief

It wasn’t easy being his,
knowing how he loved women
and they loved him

and yet when he folded
into her, when he ate
every aspect of her
face, all starvation

disappeared as she bathed
in the waterfall of hair
under his arm, as she sipped
and bit, as he took her tail
of nose into his own mouth’s
cave, they melted in the endless
tide that they rose out of,

the one flow that beholds
and devours separation,

in the ecstatic unison of god,
who whispered through the birds
at sundown, through his own
unbridled heart,

love doesn’t hoard.

 

Magnolia and Grapes

The buds still closed
but not as tight

pink tongues
in sweet repose

pale fingers molded
into prayer.

Russet and sea green grapes
not yet picked

and laid
on the table

only his heaped hands
could fit.

 

Hallowed

The kitchen is a shaft
of light.

She slices bread
and pours from
the urn of milk
into a pitcher,

which could be his mouth,
so creamy silk,

or hers,
head tilted back
to receive

exactly what,
she isn’t sure,

the room her hands
loose crumbs

are one great blur,

the ache of parts
becoming whole

through her tears.

 

Orbitless

The moon is hollow.

She never knew
she could punch
her fist straight through

or perhaps it’s her
who doesn’t exist,

freed of her past,
her future, leaving

gorgeous formless
fusion.

 

Wednesday

The air is colder now.

Wine still lingering in the cup.
fish picked at, set aside.

Her home is made of bones.

There is a hole in the sky:
he is alive inside it.

Wind billowing
in the water
its endless
dress

as she comes inside
to wait

gratefully
for death.

 

Mellow

The tulips open in a froth
of red, which is his heart
blossoming, which is her

silence settling into cream
and crimson petals, with a
dusting of black seeds
spilling onto table

and her tongue as she leans
into their heaven center,
o godstruck twin,

and revels
in their secret
golden yellow.

 

Love: An Education

In his mouth
my nose became
something other

half a triangle
long and smooth
and melting

into the indescribable
creamy ooze
of his tongue lips

gums; he for once
the female womb
the opening

taking the erect
length of me deep
within, and

after,
one warmth
one flesh

one unending
ripple ipple ipple
of
skin
His

lips sunk into skin,
limbs swilling in liquid,
blue swell of ocean,
moon become
tide in my insides

teeth gritty shell
deep in his ear of coral

seaweed drip drip
of his armpits into
a cavern of wide

open mouth wide
opening pulsing
aqua fish of
all colors foam

and the burning
glit glitter of sun
on my neck

whose hands
are licking finger
tips, being licked

whose heart is
this bottomless
sea of god water

in which we swish

in which we are
endlessly
swimming?

 

Aubade

Eye still wet
from his tongue
wedged in the groove
of my lid

sucking that hollow,
that bone, each hair
of the brow

and my face
a May meadow
newly mown

and licked lean,
glistening
with rain kiss

and blossoming
in wild
flower

 

Afterwards

Sitting on the roadside,
melon between my knees,
spooning rounds into
my sunshine mouth

still so full of him,
dress cinched up
to hips, where

his hand and
lips traced

sinuous just
hours ago or

was it minutes,
so fluid am I

still, seamless,
streaming liquids.

 

Dusk

I went to the station
to wave off the sun.

So gracefully he left,
without even a suitcase
or a morsel of food.

I drank every last drop
of honey from his goblet

before he sank
into the distance,
trailing wings
of delirious hues—

russet and almond,
fire and bruise—

until all that remained
was violet.

I sat a long while
feeling him floating

inside me,

one of us lost
between worlds.

 

 


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