Through back doors,
back alleys,
God comes.
Who has heard?
Anyone to be seen?
I go wash the dishes,
where I can keep an eye
on the back door.
I welcome anyone
who wants to come and dry.
Dishes done.
It’s time to sit and drink.
Thirst awakes hope.
We await her coming,
her, or is it, his…
Whose is it?
that mourning and patience,
that anger and joy,
that purifying fire…
Traces, traces of fire,
names too familiar,
too holy to be named.
Paths, passwords,
not to be spoken of
but to be tasted.
It’s late.
I set our glasses
in the sink,
forget to lock
the back door.
