1.
sleeping, he waits to wake her
in the dark before dawn
instinctual need pressing his hands
toward the unguarded curve of her
powerless to resist for long
the ache of desire to have,
hold, breathe skin and hair and
devour all the air from her lungs,
every fruitful sound grown from her lips as
though she senses the turn
of his thoughts upon her, she stirs
so slightly he could miss it
were not all his being tuned to her
and he takes this small permission
to chase shivers over her spine
with ghosted fingertips brushing
just telling her that he is here
if he is lucky, she will incline her ear
and he will take the chance to whisper
love songs to her sleeping spirit
that her mind will not remember but
her heart will be full of when she wakes
if he is very lucky, she will wake now
and incline her whole self toward him
and he will take the chance to pour
himself into her fully and know oneness,
his true first nature, for a small infinity,
but now he is content only to reach for her
and even in her sleeping, be received
2.
waking, she turns toward him, sleeping
shadow of a nightmare on his brow
and with quick hands soothes away
the wrinkled furrows of pain
in the deepest watches of the night,
cups sweetly the beloved face
to breathe soft truths against his skin
deep love to deep slumber
calling out: Awake and know me
My Beloved, awake and come away
into the safety of my arms
the darkness has no power here
his soul inclines toward her
in hunger, yet he does not wake
patient she lingers and lets her lips
drip honey, golden anointing oil
all authority of heaven in and held
between her palms; they won’t be moved
till dawn breaks in his eyes in answer
to the summons of his spirit,
but now she is content only to reach for him
and even in his sleeping, be received
3.
sleeping, the Wakener comes for him
eyes undaunted by the pallor of his skin
and the purple cast of his unmoving lips
knowing the power of death long broken
and the paths to captive spirits—
has already walked them, has already
broken down the gates and left
no two wall-stones stacked together—
nothing long can dwell there
least of all his Love. So he comes
with a sword in his right hand
and his voice is the melody of bells
calling over the hills, echoing in the valleys
as the Eternal Sunday dawns
it is the rumble of thunder, the lion’s roar
shaking the foundations of the earth
a voice that will not go unheard
commanding: Awake, My Beloved!
no more content with dozing mutters
and the intangibility of dreams:
the sleeping eyes are opened fully
and waking, gladly he receives