He anoints her womb, the belly skin,
with holy water unblessed.
He anoints her, blesses her,
not with authority, only his love.
He anoints her, maybe a mother
to be, maybe staying in South Knoxville.
The river, dirty and dark, under the bridge.
The clean water comes from the rain.
She takes his hand, his hand still wet from
the anointing, choosing her as queen.
Touching is a prayer of trust, and angels
fear it the most when they whisper prophecies.
Henley Street becomes Chapman Highway,
or it can go into the interstate, mountains or plains.
Plains where she came from, outside Lincoln,
the wind blowing the seed into her womb.
The mountains where he called down angels,
angels for prophecies, or what the light stole.
The clear pools of water, her anointing, her pride,
and his heretical grace; maybe she’s a mother to be.
The mountains rise above the plains, but we cannot
raise above soft mad skin, grace a whisper on a sunbeam.
She tells him on the plains the Angel of Death left his hand,
and asked for the hand of a simple prairie queen.
He tells her, the witches are clean in the hills, and prophecy
is to guide the light into your heart, not what is yet to come.
The clear water in the pools from the rain, anointing her womb,
and what may come yet, a vision of hope and a gamble.
He kisses her softly, and she runs her fingers through his hair.
Evening colors, she anointed as queen, maybe a mother to be.