her face

Her Face
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;
something
complete
precedes
it
but always something fuller proceeds.

Her smile is my red reserve,
preserving body,
nuance,
truant bite
and light
fruit.

Her eyes are freedom—
prevenient resurrection
and
lenient crucifixion.

Her hair is my half-mast flag,
my landmark of remembrance

like a cross

her face is sacrament.
Thank God for daily bread.