"Windows" - Martin Pulido

I used to go out for a walk,
and speak to the night’s cyclopian eye and its freckled face.
I thought I might woo God, the Woman in the Moon,
out of Her hiding place where She spies
on mortals with an enormous telescope.

I kept thinking if I buzzed long enough
like cicadas on my lawn in dewy mornings
She, like Christ’s unjust judge,
might grow weary and give me a wink or a blush,
or even a rude gesture to let me know of Her affections.

But sign-seeking grew boring--
I tired of dolling up Her silence as an answer,
or seeing symbols of Her stitched in nature’s quilt,
in patches of trees, eggs, or bees,
so I buttoned up the soul I’d laid bare and sauntered off.

Imagine my surprise when I arrived
home with a parcel man at the door,
who had me sign for a package containing a trilby hat,
a pile of rocks, and a note telling me I’d know what to do.

God may have a knack for enlivening,
lighting, and enlarging stones,
but I still felt foolish as I dropped them
in the hat’s crown on the off chance
of a heavenly peep, Siddharthan enlightenment, or practical joke.

No beloved apostle’s apocalypse.
No picturesque panorama as presented to Nephi.
I had every right to be disappointed,
when I noticed looking on a stone in the hat
spun my mind’s wheel and had its needle fall on a memory:

The leopard's heavy paw that woke me
from addiction's stupor on a Namibian night,
The voice by which I sang the gospel’s
joyous blues to Cajuns and crawfish,
The course I'd sailed through reason’s meandering maths.

As I dwelt on words with which
I blessed my twiceborn son,
Eliza’s secret something, the christened muse,
wrapped me in its radiant wreath and whispered,
These are windows through which shines Her grace.


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