remember the game

we used to play in June
while the maples were greening
and the sweet-cherries ripe

how one by one
I’d take those shiny dark—
the inside of your thigh—

each ripened fruit
worked cool in between

my fingers flat
easing the warmth of your—

when Christ was crucified
each red tributary
told of how they—

over your white—
against your—
until you’d squeeze them together

how juice of sweet-cherries seeped
from the press of your legs
soaked into dusk

how Mary did bathe
His tattered flesh
water and blood

beneath greening maples
I would suckle this juice
from the shade of your—

Magdalena as hollow as the tomb
tell me where they have taken him
and I will bring him back
there will come a day
maranatha!
when the dead shall rise into the sky

why can’t you remember
the game we used to play
when the maples were greening
and the sweet-cherries ripe

maranatha!
there will come a day