With the harsh kiss of midnight,
bruises like blooming lilac, the blinding
embrace of jasmine, and the ache of beaten-down
shoulders, I’ve reached into a hunter’s moon
and pulled blood, black as murder, for our Eucharist.
I want to preach the sunless morning,
invoke the holy rite of the tabby cat’s
wandering and the acidic smoke of fireplaces
from a dozen neighborhoods, to ease
the chilled breeze, the salt air, and the sea.
I’ve testified to traffic lights and peeled
layers of moonlight, thin as onion skin,
so cats and mockingbirds, possums and raccoons,
the entire congregation of the nocturnal
can raise up a chorus of blood and smoke
and blossoms from their sewer dens, their treetops,
to your doorstep where we share
the spoils of another day.

– Eric Loya