One day I stopped the swipe,left or right. One dayI started to believelike the Shulammite,the ashen haired ancestorthat I am my Beloved’sand his desire is toward me,
whether I ask for it or notbecause that’s what faith isbecause that’s what Shulammite means:Oh Daughters of Zion.The time for singing has come. His nameis perfume poured out on my name.
This truth procedureis a composition that is notof the forefinger and a screen and a selfie stick.A society of love cannot be provenin three sporty photos, a yoga pose,a bike ride in Vermont, a car selfie.
The more I swiped, the more love eludedme. Come away from your computingchildren. Truth is the oar in the water.The hand gripping. Beliefis the birdcall of Saints.For the screen does not blossomforth frankincense or liquid myrrh.
Many are sad because…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, May/June 2020