Lime-green shining through striped glass
could be aquarium or murky aftermath -
could be good or could be bad.
Mint tea tasting like a forest
warm shells cooking into cooling sand.
Your love, my love, a profusion -
when it doesn’t just shadow past passions,
could be new or could be old.
“I greet the god within you,”
is met with flinches, loss of attention
before the tattooed man asks why
I only recite parts of the Lord’s Prayer.
When I say I can only echo
resonance, he doesn’t listen.
Contrite, assured, afraid,
I confide in a kind hunter. Had never known hunters
could be good or bad
or that I might defend any religion
to those who have made enemies of whatever
is uneasily understood.
Moved and frightened
by the voice booming, “Magic,”
I will never willingly immerse my head
yet with each sunset
with those stars we could barely see
through his cheap telescope,
© 2009 Mary Leary