Midway

In from the murderous heat, I'm safe.  

A white temple entry room with peeling paint

like all the rooms of the hemispheric poor

where I can finally take my sandals off and rest.  

Where I may dip three fingers in a porcelain bowl of water, 

then wood ash, drawing prints across my chest

like one readying for sleep without a dream.

I’ve never been one for religious rites. 

And I hope whoever cares won’t care 

that I forego obligatory lines along the forehead, 

for a brand more private. 

No one stands for long in this middle passage.  

It is cool and still here, and I linger for no reason, 

twirling the stem of a scarlet-yellw hibiscus

sealed up for the morning, 

sucked tight to its own center

with skin like a surgeon’s rubber glove. 

At the foot of His chair, in light and warmth, 

at a later time, when things are licit,

that’s when I expect my flower may speak.