a poem for Heather by Troy Cady
Her face is far more sacred than my late Saint Grandmother’s torn King James. I will tell you what makes it so.
Her face is my ring of flames scaring gray wolves away, keeping bared fangs at bay.
Her face binds my dry soulspace to her place of fertile grace with but a trace look.
It tills a deadhard landscape.
There is no cost to get lost
in her face
is to be found and grounded (bound to lose myself again).
It is the semi-colon that could be a full stop;
but always something fuller proceeds.
Her smile is my red reserve,
Her eyes are freedom—
Her hair is my half-mast flag,
my landmark of remembrance
like a cross
her face is sacrament.
Thank God for daily bread.