The Pope Adds the Mysteries of Life

People pass me by in the street, abuzz like bees 
freed from a hive, and I feel the jumble 
of emotions, the catechism of their thoughts.

Bare nerves, open wounds.  At each noise 
my thin skin twinges.  In my brain, messengers 
pant before they gather energy to leap the synaptic 

gap, landing with a thud.  I meditate—headed for
the kingdom, to hush the ruckus a while.  
Apostle of sound, I hear my stomach gurgle, 

every hair lengthen and the roots death tremble 
as it loosens and falls.  I feel my toenails grow.  
A hubbub roars in the heart, valves open and slam 

shut, blood swishing along the bodys troughs.  
I cannot garden, for the carrots weep
when pulled, and potatoes groan when spaded

from their dark home.  Dragonflies click darning 
needles in the fabric of air.  My beads clang 
in the sun between furrowed fingers and thumb.


 

© Jan Lee Ande