Memory is

a gift God gave us, far better than
any offspring or sacrificial flesh.

This was a new, advanced way of giving,
since memory was part of Herself,
how She knows, and the parcel of it

we each get allows us to be, like Her,
wherever and whenever we once were.

***

Second in a series of, to my astonishment, theological poems. Here is the first of the series: Time is.

Metamorphosis

How lucky water
freezes, so ice floats
up, blood clots
staunch wounds.

Diseases which haunt
our worst thoughts
fortunately remain
few and far between.

But when you touch
a scab crusted on raw
memory, do not pick
at it – it might bleed.