I imagined a holier music
but life jangles, doesn’t it,
even when robed women participate.
Six hours preparing a dress and plate,
the gentle fires of tradition lit
in the cages meant for them,
the weather with the instructions fit—
but where is the lesson the holy God
learned, facing her smiling expression?
Eating is the highest pleasure. All night
we ate. Or is it the scalding water
pleasuring the itching skin?
When did pleasure lose its holiness?
When did kissing become a sin?
When did the natural canopy, the natural settings,
the holy oven for the bread,
become an excuse to jangle?
I apologize to the one high God.
What was that far-away music in my head?