I Spit Black

The dog pokes me in the side with an eager nose as write at my desk. The weather-woman waxes poetic: windy warm wet Wednesday. With headlamps we rake leaves well past 10 p.m. It's strange, the amount of energy taken and given to hold back nature. I say as much, happily pushing and pulling leaves in the dark.

I sing songs in the car as you sit next to me in the passenger seat, delighted by my playfulness. The radio scans; I deejay. My silver ring shaped like a single feather catches the light as I move my hand from the steering wheel to the base of your chin, turning you towards me for a second. My eyes smile – I see the doorway to a thousand churches. Body as communication: I have that kind of love to give.

Puddles on the curve. A dark sky giving birth. The sienna sea of fallen leaves covers a backyard absent of snow. We brush our teeth with charcoal tablets and I simply cannot get past the idea that I can eat all your demons. I spit black.

To Mom's surprise, I consider Christmas Mass. My childhood church still stands. Will I remember or forget? Have I risen? I am not alone and I want to kneel in the gratitude for you who goes with me.