poems

by Rishma Dunlop

Theology

This is always what it comes to.

The decision to understand love’s significance.

How love’s meaning is held in that moment,

full of terror, rage, grief, tenderness, trust,

that round, full moment undeniable

like the mouth closed on the sweetness of an orange

like the flesh kissed again and again in the warm falling rain.

This is it held out to you for the taking.

Accidental. Raw as faith.

What do you really Want?

I want you to continue telling me

that Beatrice is spelled like my name

in your heart.

I want to always feel how the ground

shifts in your touch and the hand of love

shapes my throat into singing.

I want the poetry of sacred conversation.

No borders between lips and ears.

I want to feel your raw kiss through the

scraped bones of the past, through the

shiver of history.

I want to hear you like the heartache saxophone

of John Coltrane, love thrumming my spine. I

want to hear you like the honeyed voice of Nina

Simone singing I want a little sugar in my bowl.

I want you to rough my hand with your tongue,

embroider my skin with constellations again

and again.

I want you to soften the sharp things of the world,

in the new hours of this imperfect century.