North Country

Wind-rush blows through the kitchen door
like a deep exhale before sins are confessed
to faceless voices behind bullet-riddled partitions.
I slam shut the world.
An assembly of abbot crows, atop bare branches,
await to accuse me of universal heresy,
untamed love.

I’d give the Devil tomorrow to be with you today,
but he’s not interested in my offered deal.
Instead, the Morning Angel directs
me to the half-incinerated, old wooden table,
you carved our hearts into before the last church retreat.
Wants me to finish the job, ignite the remaining timbers for fuel.
He knows my sodden resolve, the innocence from the orchard,
withered away after our first moonlight fuck.

If you were here, you’d beg me not to go.
Say your heart-signs are how we leave
our mark of love behind in the North.
But I plan to nail the scarred planks into a crucifix,
not turn them to ash.
Ask forgiveness, one last time.

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