Secular Ether

In May the soil gives up its water,
feeding the blooms;
the climbing racemes hum
in their spectrums.

She also colors herself,
brushing powder on her bruises,
long sleeves covering her cut wrists,
underlining eyes that don't need it.

The mirror returns something with which
she's not satisfied. The light
comes in through the window,
the honeysuckles outside
turn up their mouths,
nodding in the breeze,
joined in a bacchanal wavering
in the swelter. He stands beside her,

"You're going to wear long sleeves
on a day like this?"
Shrugging, her Seminole skin
is her protection,
"You're the one who's dying
in this heat." She turns around
and her smile pauses at his eyes
before it floats through the window,
and transubstantiates into the yard.

She wears a pentagram ring,
the phases of the moon circle her arm,
and she calls herself a Pagan.
He thinks about secular ether,
and how a clean priest slapped his jaw
when he was fifteen and told him to 'go with God,'
meaning nothing to him.

The heat lightning seems to strike indifferently outside,
as it creates the ozone that will cool them off.