Doubting Thomas

I told you once I'm not a believer
In holy visions or divine fate, and yet,
You challenge my convictions.

Doubting Thomas, I overcome the urge
To find the ultimate proof of you,
And my doing so is the miracle made manifest.

I've never felt your flesh and bone,
But in a world without faith,
I will walk on water to your shore.

Letter from Galatea

My waking is your moontime sleeping.
Like Michelangelo's Dusk and Dawn,
We're rough-hewn still, not fully formed.

I clad myself in marble once,
Smooth surface no place for clinging hands--
Solid, strong, cool monument of woman.

But I would not be your place of worship,
Nor sacred saint with beads to count,
So, slowly, white stone becomes flushed and warm.

Naked, unafraid, I breathe deep and quit my pediment perch
To find you too are flesh and bone.
The tenderest part of me curls around your skin,

And tucks you in to sweetest dreams