Each day, each night, upon the southern island that
reaches out to the Gulf of Mexico,
the clapboard beach houses raise their tunes
of flying fish, slapping hard upon the water’s edge.
I was two, perhaps, younger. My memory slips
into a time of a golden astonishment, white sand that stings
as a round, translucent ball of jelly,
with tentacles created from a barbed wire.
Padre Island, 1956.
Time travels forward.
Teen worries, of fate, and
the destiny of a late bloomer,
where hearts cry all day long.
Love is Blue and To Sir, with Love.
The day just beginning.
Walking to school, I saw her, staring.
Why me? at sixteen, I think
did she bare truth through a lost generation
of mini-skirts, and untied blouses?
A woman of age.
Baby Blue Marine.
Why, this abattoir of carnality leading
young boys to their spiritual death?
I mean, when should one know?
Forty years plus, as the feast continues,
I am drawn, and withdrawn, into the subtleties
of these feministic wiles.
I am no possession.
This is not love, no longing for Christ
even present. Why this wound? A suicide of the soul.
A warped mind, not even developed
At sixteen, though the assailants are running free
In this world of carnal adversity.
Man and Woman, He Created Them:
A Theology of the Body. 2006.