The Sin of My Poetry

There is gold in these words;
greed hammered from the earth
and from a lifetime
of looking at the skies
waiting for heaven to arrive
with a fanfare and angels.

God will punish me
for the words I have come
to say out loud,
the sin of my poetry
describing the contours
of the body and the ways
in which joy
is gathered at the tips
of fingers and trembles
in my skin
like silent
frequencies of light--
like the rumbling ridges
of faultlines
deep in the granite ledges
beneath my home.

Yet I sit still
and ask quietly
where to touch
the paper with ink,
and on which
I will write
the words
that tell the truth
of my days,
and of all the nights

I have begged
to be taken away
in my sleep;
to fly free
of all that holds me
too tightly.

I long to be naked,
arms lifted up like a child
wanting to be held,
with only the exhalation
of a single breath
between me
and the God
who will take me,

show me
the brilliance
of repentance
in counting
the endless gems
of stars
in the arrival
of another
glistening winter.