Cry of the Stars

Maybe we have approached the sound
of an army erupting across a cloudless sky,
the clamoring victory cry from those whose
thousand hands drew back the firmament’s curtain
and watched their king go forth,

whose voices rose like daybreak
when they looked, and wondered,
and did not understand.
As for me, I could not speak when the golden dusk
had breathed out glory that gripped me tight

like a baby’s fist around my finger,
still streaked red from the womb but steady
as the ranks of time, strong as a mother’s heartbeat,
unseemly as arms that scatter the stars yet
lift my deadweight bones like something
precious to be held.

Maybe we are approaching the sound
of true love: this low thrumming
moves the ground under me, rattles my skeleton,
shakes my soul awake and I
have glimpsed the land beyond the sun,

I have touched a face older than the ocean
that bent from light into black dust, that stooped
over my crumbling corpse and breathed—

When I heard your name, I wept
louder than the angels' shout.
They do not know the weight we carried on
our cracking necks, the long despair in heavy silence
that is splintering beneath your red-streaked feet,

which have walked from blood to blood across
the cemetery of our earth, and we,
the bones, sprang up with joy
to hear your steps at last.

I.
In the stillness between us, your eyes
had turned to dust bowls, fixed on me
with pleading heavier than a scream,

and my cottonball tongue,
four weeks dry and sitting on my teeth like
leaded sand, had no answer.

My hand pressing at the darkened window
like burnt wrinkled sackcloth, fingers
shriveled and ashen,
my eyelids leaking black mud
and silt.

My exhale—I have nothing, I have
nothing—leaving only dust,
ghost tracings falling silent from
the cold glass.

II.
For years I lived from one jar.
It wore lightning-bolt fractures all
over, uneven edges that caught
at my fingernails as I stretched out,

waited for mercy to pour its
measure down every seven days,
and drank sparingly.
I was a mess of cracks and caverns,

but it sewed me up so slowly
I didn’t notice, a stone ridge
laid down by patient rivers,
unaware of my own growing.

The years went by. It was
enough, I thought.

III.
Someone had torn down the wall
that kept me from knowing you:
suddenly I saw you, withering
silently there, and the gaps in my jar
had multiplied so it lay in pieces like
dead autumn leaves around us and

your little mouth was empty,
your tiny throat bone-dry.

Climbing over the rubble to you
I would have torn myself open,
crushed my own heart and wrung out
my lungs for a trace of water

if it meant that you could
drink—but I was parched as
dusty brick, sun-baked
to the core.

We sat in stillness, waiting.
Something pounded at the door.

IV.
That insistent drumming, getting
louder all the time, and the low growls
rattling the windowpane left me
shaking, both arms shivering

as I pushed the door wide and
fell headfirst into a thunderstorm.
The shock surged through me as surely
as if I'd been struck, rain and relief
streaming into my hair and down my neck

and I gasped and gasped until
water pulsed out with every breath
and life had filled me up and
overflowed,

dripping into my ears and out my mouth,
pulling me trembling to my feet,
yearning to give, to give,
to give—

and it turned my face, and I
caught the heavens in my hands,
and I came running
back to you.

When I was born into night's darkness,
I came with my own bucket
of tar, gleaming thickly black and
brimming full to the edges, all
for me, all my own.

The tar was smooth on my tiny fingers
and richly warm in my mouth, so
I loved it at the start, though it
dried heavy and permanently deep;
I decorated myself with layers of the stuff,
savoring the little thrill
of its slow trickling and subtle warmth
in the moments before it
sank into my skin and crusted over,
turning me into a shadow
among shadows.

The first time I saw the glow creeping
at the edges of the city
I screamed and coughed up terror
for days. I'd felt it then:
the spark's inevitability,
the readiness of the whole blackened mass
to ignite and burn itself—and me,
all painted over with death's
hot, grasping hands—into oblivion.
I huddled back into the dark,
choking on crusty sobs and hating light
with every dried-up, thirsty bone
in my body.

Rain fell every now and then
and dripped off me, clear,
inking the tar with midnight blossoms
but slipping straight across the thick shell.
Nothing could wash me.
I broke my wrists trying
to crack them open against the cement step
of an abandoned building,
felt wet blood slippery on my skin
—for one merciful second it seemed almost
to melt the tar from within—
until it dried, too, more
stinking fuel waiting to burn.

As I grew taller, I shook to realize
my everlasting night was one immense
shadow, cast by an immeasurable
and swift-advancing morning.
Already half the city's streets were lit,
stripped naked in the harsh glare
of the imminent sunrise and
its inexorable draw.

Now, perhaps, you know
the rest of the story. Perhaps you, yourself,
have seen exactly how much blood
it takes to dissolve tar,
and can tell me how he silently took
the bucket from your heavy hands
on his way to the city square.
Perhaps you will always remember
the blazing cobblestones and
the shape of his blackened silhouette
as he met the fire:

knees bowed low and face set forward,
while the flames leaped into the sky,
licking up every trace
of tar they found, and leaving you
untouched, trembling,
whole.

The sorrow you leave behind
is that of a body missing its arm.
It is the disbelief of sudden absence,
the clumsiness of a crippling,
and the tormented yearning for lost wholeness.

Black are these drowning days; fierce,
the water's hands that claw my face;
cold, the accusing daggers
twisting in my ears.
Choking, bitter ashes fill my mouth
when I am hurled ashore.
Is this the place where Job once
mourned before?

and I ran to the whirlwind, shouted at
a father I could barely see.
        do you hear me?
        are you there?

Oh, my fingers and my feet grow weak;
my weary limbs could drop
away from me. But no, not yet.
These jagged stones may drink my blood,
but I am told
your voice lies at the top
of Zion's noble peak.
   
so I came up the mountain, waited there--
but only silence answered me.
        is this all?
        must I despair?
   
Here I cry, my feeble eyes
at war against the night,
my palms spread throbbing on the ground.
I shake and tremble, and I cannot rise;
here I lie, blind in the dark; quiet
I shall stay

                 until the sunlight
breaks open the day
and I can feel your hands around
my own, then: where have you been?
why did you hide?

You're crouching by my side.
I'm here, is all you say.

and I stood by Golgotha, listened close,
and there, again, I heard mercy--
    the sound more beautiful
    than I could bear.

This is the earnest melody
that I will never swallow:
I have a savior dressed in scars,
a father lighting up new stars,
and a heart no longer hollow.

I tried to find him in the woods and in the desert,
in the sky and in the ocean,
in the cave and on the mountain.
The wind and water hummed with echoes of his voice.
His bright shadow stretched beneath the earth and sparkled on the sea.
The ghosts of his fingers whispered in the dust and sand.

But though you are crooked and his frame is straight,
you still match best of all things here.
Though you are broken, as we all must be,
if I squint against the cracks, I see:
my father's face still smiles, reflected bright in yours.

--
A/N: So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them (Genesis 1:27).

Daughter of wrath, wait
for your father to return.
Point no finger
at your mother's unclothed back,
for you deserve the same;

you've grown into your own name
        and so have we
                --have I.

Stranger-son, watch
your father working in his fields.
His blood could not
run through your veins without
burning you now;

you've exchanged it for old ashes
        and so have we
                --have I.

*

Take someone else’s name, children,
and someone else’s blood:

join your mother in her sanctuary,
where Lo-ruhama is given mercy--
               Lo-ammi is called “my own”--
                    Gomer is betrothed again, forever.

*

The farmer strides into the wilderness,
        clears the land and sows it generously.
Unfaithful runaway hides herself
        beneath his cloak and follows him home.
The field slowly grows tall,
        waiting for the harvest.

He put the glowing bundle in my hands.

'What's this?' I said.
'My life,' was the reply.
    'Yours now.'
   
--what?
(I stood dumbstruck.)


'List of things inside,' he went on:
        never lies to Mom. never talks back to Dad. Yours.
        never speaks an unkind word. Yours.
        never gets annoyed with anything. Yours.
  
        always makes the right decision. Yours.
        always has complete self-control. Yours.
        pure thoughts. Yours.
  
        family relationship with Creator of all,
        stubborn love in the face of hatred,
        absolute, utter perfection--yours, yours, yours.
  
        more, too, if you keep looking.

   
'Mine,' I repeated. 'Mine?'
'My gift to you,' he said, smiling.
    'All yours.'

Good beginnings are only
exciting because of the
beautiful endings
they promise,
which an author sets up
carefully, so the reader
will be satisfied in
some way. 
Funny that something so
simple as an ending
can be so very
complex,
satisfying the writer as
well as the reader,
setting down
her pen,
saying to herself, yes, this
will grasp their hearts
and hold them
captive;
yet only the best tales can
transfix us like that.
I think I know
one of them:

It is finished,
wrote one author,
just beginning my story.
I'm reading eagerly until the end.

If Scripture is God-breathed,
then maybe as we read,
our souls are mirroring His action.
Do you doubt the power of that air?
Remember: His breath brought
the first man from dust to life--
from simple earth to life!

Breathe in, redeemed one,
breathe in until you taste
His words sweet on your tongue,
filling your lungs and mouth with
His life and love,
so you may rise from the dust
with His strength in your feet
and His mercy glowing in your hands.

You and I have always known,
and we are both aware
that Father brought our spirits close,
and Father knit them there.
So then, together we will grow
with love and grace and prayers--
and of His light our souls will glow
within His sovereign care.

If the world would end tonight,
would you be coming home with me?

If the sky was pulled apart
and stars and moon fled
to farthest corners and trembled there,
would you be frightened
to find what glory lay behind?

If you saw a King coming down to us,
would you want to hide, or
would you want to run into his arms?

I'm shaking with the promise of
eternity, and you'll be shaking too.
I hope you know if it'll be fear or joy.

When you stand at Heaven's gates,
will you be looking at your home--
will you be going there with me?

He shaped me before I had form;
molded me with great eternal hands;
taught me how to breathe
and my heart how to beat.
He took my little soul up
by the arms and showed me how
to walk; fed me, gave me strength.
He loved me like no other
ever would or could,

and still I ran away. I learned
to worship at another altar. Turned
the mirror into my sky and forgot
he stood behind it. Said
"My Lord," to the things I had done
and looked to them for all my help.
Loved myself and only me.

What a child you are, he said.
The more I call, the more you turn away.
I loved you, and you lusted after
everything I gave to you, though
you deserved nothing. Therefore
my anger burns, and justice
must be made,

but when I roar, take heed:
come trembling back, because I
love you still.

And like a lion he devoured and
poured his wrath until that righteous
burning anger ran completely dry.
Not one bit of it reached me.
I stood and watched, because
another took my place
that I might tremble
and return.

Come child, he said,
and do not fear. What have I
to do with idols? It is I
who answers and looks after you,
and I who has healed you,
and I who will make you grow
strong in my shadow.

Come to me, he said.
I love you freely.

--
A/N: Hosea 11-14

the river's
cooler than the air,
but not as clear.
the dirty darkness might be
a little heavy in your lungs.
rivers were always
for crossing and everyone does,
someday.
i wonder what mine is like.

(have you heard the sound
of a star exploding,
because i think it
could be magnificent.)

white cracked like toothpicks
between his powerful jaws;
stuck in his teeth like them too.
he didn't mind because that reddish
life was warm as it went down
his throat. brown feathers lay
crushed under his paws.

(i heard it's like sleeping,
only the dreams are better
and the nightmares are worse.)

autumn holds more significance
than it should. after all,
new leaves arrive every year.
consider the ancient oak
that stood tall for years, but
withers in the summer heat,
finally falls across

rivers that were always
for crossing, and i will someday,
smiling. my house and father
are on the other side.

sacred salvation
sempiternal, sufficent
such sovereignty

My father owns the stars and sea
        and gathers children in his arms.
Because he told the earth to be,
my father owns the stars and sea
and holds the mountain's majesty,
        yet cares to shelter me from harm.
My father owns the stars and sea
        and gathers children in his arms.

Why do you stand far from me?
O my children, do not fear--
Of my goodness taste and see
Come, my son, draw near.

Fear no demon, fear no man
Life and strength await you here
Find your comfort in my hand
Come, my son, draw near.

Child, child, do not despair
Let me wipe away your tears--
You are safe within my care
Come, my son, draw near.

Why do you stand far from me?
O my child, let this be clear:
I am all you'll ever need
Come, my son, draw near.