Saint Julian Press

Britt Posmer ~ Poet ~ Artist

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The Archangel

 

The archangel adored the earth

and fell into a human life solely

that she might have a warm creature-belly

to press upon the ground, and arms,

if not as wide as wings, more ecstatically unfurled

in awareness of their frail brevity, to embrace it.

 

Sinuously, the fragrance of the grass rose

and stained her cheek as she crooned

to the smallest things,

the pebbles and roots, and the skeletons of leaves

that were once held aloft in a blaze of sap green

burned to the elemental fires of autumn's longing.

 

In the loamy soil beneath, a single seed

split its skin in answer,

and felt a sun it had never seen, round as a yolk,

in echo of its fullness.

 

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Passage

 

I am not

your vanilla saint. I am

this miracle:

 

corpse trailing a comet's tail

of ecstatic flesh.

 

Attended by your love,

I'm free

 

to roam the mystic hallways

of my childhood faith. My body

is the path of homecoming.

 

Travel me.

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How To Call A Unicorn

 

Stretch out your hand,

unmoving,

 

that I might have

the pleasure of approach.

 

Then see - proud

creature! -

 

how I stride

towards you,

 

bow to rest my cheek

against your palm,

 

and love you,

 

because your fingers

do not close,

 

because you hold me

only by your breathing.

 

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Refuge

 

I take refuge

on the floor

of the heart's

chapel,

between

creaking pews

smelling

of cracked leather

and fallen hymnals,

bound blue,

like broken eggshells

too small

to hold love's

longing

in its flight

to God.

 

Prayer is fetal.

Head to

knees,

completing

a circle

of departure.

 

I have already

gambled  

with my death

and won.

 

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Biography

Press Release

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