Wooden Woman takes in a long breath.
This is where she takes off her shoes.
Between the toes of Engineers boots and hers
it’s dusty. Long hairs have migrated
under the shoe tree and merged with
grey-coated carpet. Wooden Woman remembers
house dust is mostly skin, cells shed like snow.
Within seven years every cell is replaced.
Constant renewal. Yet we grow old. Her toe snags
of almost-ready-to-give-away clothes,
past indulgences one could almost forget,
but not quite.
The dirty things and
hanging things whisper the lingering scent
of sweat and perfume,
the truth and the cover.
Go into your closet and pray.
Wooden Woman is a literalist.
And a closet figurative -ist.
She closes the door and
thinks about Holy God
kind of like a first and last name.
What does your name mean?
Wooden Woman means Graceful Lily.
Graceful Lily is laughing
unable to conjure a face to go with Holy,
feels like: All heads down.
even in a dark closet
with the door closed. Wooden Woman
presses her palms against her eyes,
bits of light whirl and sift.
Wooden Woman imagines this as an entry
shoe boxes and shelves, walls
fall away and openness reels outward,
gathering yesterdays and calling tomorrow,
the way the strike
of a church bell
announces beginnings and ends
and endless calling of the name...
Holy. Holy Holy
and there seems nothing else
so she chimes in
Holy Holy Holy and Holy
And she understands sorrow
because she is not
or even holy
and the closet is her cover.
And comfort. For a long long time…
was it time, or just being
with I AM?
takes what she imagines to be
of he who drove her home
on a dark night,
turns the palm up and places a kiss.
She opens the door with...
After a few steps she pauses,
shivers… and looks back… nah, nothing there…
…“Surely goodness and mercy will follow you…”