Sweet Skin of Fog

                                      For Brigid
 
A blank page lays open-handed
ready to hold this story
but all that oozes from the veil
is a memory of a memory
 
You appeared while I was writing
Specter from a past life
my Celtic blood lived
 
Conversation becomes the hardest thing to carry  
under the weight of history
Our own senses become weapons
for and against yourself
over what to believe
 
Your sweet skin of fog
escaped from its sepulchre  
becoming the chill winter morn
 
You asked if you needed a calling card
or soap box platform
to be remembered  
to offer what’s inside your heart—
that healing touch, like soap  
which washes us clean
 
Not the nightmare
that canonized your name
in a saintly manner
designed to absorb your existence
but the dream where we overcome
such a tyrannical religion
 
From that day forth
despite stones of judgment
from those who wished me saved—
I offered my bones as a lifeboat
rowing your truth ashore
from their disinformation war
 
My right hand is never empty
but packed with promise
like this blank page before me
waiting to hold the weight
of whatever it’s going to take
to restore history to its rightful place
 
I used to wish  
that chaos wasn't stirring
its insect legs in wait
to swallow another fact
or life
 
Now I know no one ever leaves
before that one thing is accomplished
that one destined thing
preceding transcending the flesh
 
It may be one small thing
but still change the entire course
of human evolution
 
My life is different now
having felt your phantom hand
I see your face in the light
hear your voice in the ritual
of lapping waves against the boat
rowing you into the present moment
where you rightfully belong
 
Your gentle Spirit
a whispering specter of mist
over the water, so grateful
for newfound belief  
in ancient truth