Breathing Gas

deep sea divver
Photo Credit
Photo Credit

Strengthen in me contentment,
that fragile, tenuous
umbilical cord
connecting my stomach to your womb.

Three strands of heart, spirit, soul
wrapped ’round each other
like a double helix of DNA,
the double of your make-up,
Father, Son, and Spirit.

Helium, oxygen, nitrogen,
a breathing gas to dive
into the depths of my gestation,
to inhale through the tube
of your endless breath,
the secret to being content in all situations.
My confinement in you
is a smallamountofspace
for a l o n g a m o u n t o f t i m e,
and mankind has not begun
to understand what lies in the depths
of the ocean.

Does an infant know anything but need?
Anything except skin against skin
and the instinct to feed?
Even my desire to be content in you
is given by you,
like the nutrients of a mother’s body
is fed through the cord to whet
the appetite for a life outside the womb.

Is there an ache inside your stomach
like the stretching,
tautening,
and snapping
of a heartstring
after the cord is cut
and my wean is complete
and the infant can toddle off
to find contentment elsewhere?

What risk you take in Fathering
this double of your double helixes!
All those late nights knitting
the skin and freckles of my frame,
knowing what I need
and knowing I will forget,
but choosing to release me
so I can choose to come back.

In a way, contentment
is your tether to me.
Your contentment in this agitated,
kick-in-the-ribs, squalling child draws me into
contentment of you,
’til I’m subdued by the strength
of a fathomless threefold cord.

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Hunger

under the greenwood tree

Teach me your language.
The child in me, wide-eyed Wonder,
is your mimicry.
My spirit is in early development
but in its prime for teachability.
How do I speak the language of heaven?

Start with taste.
I know all ten-thousand hairs
on your tongue.
Every nerve ending
regenerating
every ten days
so you can renew your taste
and see that I am good.
Your spirit has a tongue–or didn’t you know?

When you stitched this skin together
in the womb,
you used words, not thread.
The language of heaven is encoded
in my DNA.
Teach me your tongue.
Every lilt and swell,
every syllable.
Meet me
where the practice of consonants,
curling the tongue to the palate
and the pucker of lips to produce vowels,
ceases
and fluency begins.

There is a time to sew
and a time to rip out the seams
and start over.
Start with breath.
Wind that stirred life from death.
There is a time coming
when all dust will return to the earth
and the spirit of man to God who gave it.
You cannot breathe apart from me,
so you cannot speak apart from me.

Hunger.
The language you teach me?
There is a pang in my belly
eating out all other desire,
a hunger that grows
like the fanning of flames.
I am empty,
my soul cries,
Daddy, feed me!
Fill me with your Spirit-wind
and I will taste and see that you
are good.

Why do you work for that
which does not satisfy?
I am the bread of life.
Come to me,
eat and live forever.
The bread that I give for your life
is my body,
and whoever feeds on me, abides in me.
Apart from me, you can do nothing,
not even hunger.

I am depending on you.
Every breath, every pang.
Teach me
the language of heaven:
the splatter of blood poured out,
the crack of breaking bone,
you were emptied.
The gush of water overflowing,
the whoosh of wind descending,
I am filled
only to find
my taste buds have reflowered,
and I am learning the fluency
of hunger.