Heart Songs

My heart songs 

are found in hollows and open spaces;

like when I wandered the souq with all the homesickness

Swaying my stomach to the left and head to the right

And I broke over, in two at the waist at two travellers, laughing,

two-gather

The home-spun loneliness of my life unravels outward to infinite

And walking those nights only hearing Hebrew or Arabic

Through walls of the Old City, a little drunk and inward quiet

I leaned upon stone, and realized

relationships of common language give life the most meaning

and that mercy can be as bare as knowing,

that you could be in one of those relationships, now, if you so chose.

The ancient progression unraveling to infinite

Showed me heart songs and mercy

And there is nothing my heart songs respond to more than

Feral thumps, the taste of grass, raspberry seeds, the thought of your mother's caress while homesick and afar,

mist, dirt, wings, jazz

Writing or warmth

The thought of infinity and idea of change

The feel of a neck or the base of a flower pot.

I went to the place where Jesus was crucified.

Seeking mercy, I napped my hours into the church square

awaking beside a woman talking quietly to herself

A diamond of blue chalk at her third eye

A police officer asked her

If she was a Christian

Yes

Where are you from?

Texas 

And in her accent I heard a friend as she, too, once had spoken with that same accent, kindly mocking, saying

She is a southern belle.

I laughed a little and felt at home,

Both of us on quests and both speaking English

I had not heard English in a long time and was washed over 

with mercy thus becoming 

merciful

I thought of saying:

I am a weary traveler and seek mercy so I ask for you to share a meal with me

I did not, she kept

Talking to herself laughing sometimes and then 

Carrying on her conversation

So I sat next to her for an hour

thinking and watching

For the right salutation 

for when she finished.

She got up moving to the alley out I moved slowly not wanting to disturb

asking for nothing save the perfect ending to the poem

I had begun hearing.

a man was painting

I observed

Standing like his elbow my eyes his

brush

I will ask her, I must, and I will give her

time

and then she came sitting back down

all the spaces around her 

Were full with people, so I could not too sit and wait again.

And I laughed for it was the perfect ending 

to the poem.

Each person,

Be it the Christian woman

Be it the boy carrying pomegranate juice he squeezed for ten cents 

Holding the brimming cup with giant grin 

or the disdainful man

chewing loud hurrying to receive the juice

or a quiet old woman 

praying within the shouts and whispers of the Muslim Quarter at noon.

Each person, each animal, each tree, each rock, each molecule of water

Every one's quilt unravels to infinite 

between the word and answer  

between the subtle and the gross

through heart songs spun in home places and revisited afar

I am spiraling around

and around.