A poem, commonly through facets of loving, says amen—
not like a congregation recites it at the end of liturgy,
getting off its knees in haste—but forthwith out of itself,
the way a person who has lost says amen with honesty,
staying nearest to the soil. A true poem brings this feeling
to the surface of a relationship, makes the heart content.
It is only after the ceremony when the guests are gone,
that there is time for old discussions with the wilderness
and eyefuls of betrayal, the final acceptance of knowing
no truth: why life's back keeps breaking. After everything
it is time, and you hold back nothing. Love needs a quest
so you let your mouth say thank you and hope for the best.
Your voice will assemble at the meeting of your palms.
Amen has become the starting blocks of birth, of praise
that sweats the skin, acknowledging love as a sort of death
due to the ones who are gone, gone into earth or simply,
as is so often the case, out of the bedroom of your heart.