what is holy

A spoken word piece that I wrote for a performance poetry class at Freehold. A smattering of what I find holy.  Here’s the text if you like that sort of thing:

Holy is the heart-shaped divet at the top of a mountain
in New Mexico
and the snowflakes that let me see its outline.

That sticky, liquid drop on a flower’s stamen—that’s holy.

Holy is tousled hair in the morning
(and the lingering wetness between my legs)

Holy is the taste of my lover’s sweat and the sly smile I wear the next day.

Holy is breakfast in bed
And the taste of creamy coffee sliding down my throat while the sun kisses my back.

Holy is the ache in my heart after parting.

Water is Holy as it spilled out of my womb in the car
and holy is most certainly the wailing Universe that came sliding into the world with a
maelstrom force.

Holy is endless diaper changing and breastfeeding in public.
Holy is giving your last drop of life force to your infant
and somehow finding more to give.

Holy is lingering long enough in your eyes to see my own reflection.
And the snowflakes that let me see its outline.

Holy is sticky taffy on my teeth
And still having enough money at the carnival
to give my brother some
after he spent all of his.
(That I still gloat about that a little? That’s holy.)

Holy is longing and fulfillment
And the taste of metal in blood.

Holy is the loss of love
And the finding of self

Holy is letting go
but remembering her small fingers wrapped around my own.

The tangled questions in my heart are holy.

Holy is shit on the bottom of my shoe
because I wasn’t looking down
because the sky was so fucking beautiful.

Holy is the thousands of miles between us
But the way I snuggle into your voice when we talk.

Holy is the memory of my daughter’s naked toddler body
rolling in buttercups
and her beautiful, bountiful laughter.

Fire is holy
and the burning away of everything that isn’t needed
into ash.

Holy is the wind scattering those ashes back to earth.

Holy is his turgid mouth on mine
And the bruise on my lip the next day

Holy is an end that turns into a beginning
Holy is the scar on my mother’s neck
that saved her life
but took her voice.
And the snowflakes that let me see its outline.

***
Update:  This poem, and some art were selected for exhibition at the Spiritual Ecologies and New Cosmologies Convergence in British Columbia in September 2014.