How to know that there is a thing called holy and it is small and close and sleeping

You will still feel her fingers in your palm;
the knuckled memory of her heart will hum
and echo slow as you make plans to build
a shrine to her in the spaces where she pressed

her cheek against your neck, stitched her fingers
to your chest and with an ocean calling
through the window, ebbed herself to sleep.
Now, the house at rest, her breathing, steady

as a pulse, comes humming through the wall
and carried on a vein of air now threading
down the hall to where you find yourself
waiting for the earth to turn beneath you.

In a minute, a single breath will stall
inside her throat, will gather itself, swelling
as a wave to break and exhale itself as song
and it will take a feat of will to not sing back

and wake her. You’ll tell yourself to sit instead
and sift through your agnostic language
for some vague approximation of the note
now spinning prayer wheels in your throat.

7 thoughts on “How to know that there is a thing called holy and it is small and close and sleeping”

  1. So precious about what life is. Such a beautiful poem Simon. Bumped into your name at Reagan’s blog and so glad that I popped in. Have a lovely week. 🙂

  2. There are no words for Joe this touched me on do many levels. I have three grown daughters. I miss those sounds and imprints…holy I’d s perfect words to describe those moments. Thank you for carpeting what I could not.

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