a love poem
I want to say your name
the way Jesus said, “Mary,”
at the unstopped tomb, when he was
halfway resurrected, unwrapped
but not ascended, spirit and body
in that fragile, persistent mix.
“Mary,” he said, and she knew him.
“Mary,” and she must have moved toward him
for he said, do not touch me now
I am between things.
“Mary,” he said, and she changed, as if
an hour earlier she had been a child, Her name
held all of her and it was his gift.
He said it once, which was forever.
I would say yours once, to seal
who you are, why I’ve stayed.
“Mary,” he said (I would say your name)
and the wind blew between the letters.
Stars hung low over the peaks of the M
and in the a, a world orbited.