not possible to gift-wrap oddly shaped objects
the journey’s a maze –
tilted corridors, stairs climbing,
descending in blatant
perspective, a puzzle cube
twisted this way and that
- difficult to see
no passage is alike.
In my Father’s house
a Turk in a surplus US Army
jacket sells pieces of the true cross
near the Duomo. Here’s one,
its grainy whorl a thumb print,
buy it, later lose it in
a drawer with dead batteries.
In my Father’s house
we keep doing our work –
sperm, maggots – passion
and consumption, motion,
footprints fill in, there’s gleaning
and scorching, sorrows appear
and vanish,
love prevails though
corpses become rich black soil
and overnight, mushrooms
come out as unexpected stars
in those dark fields,
there are many mansions
Wanda McCollar
