Pentecost

Pentecost

Matthew Carlin

There is an olive grove burning in my head,
but I’ve already turned the lights off.
My bed, now fragrant with smoke, shakes

like a death rattle. I’m dreaming again.
Dear Dream Engine, give me a vision
of rain kissing the steeples, anointing the world,

let me see myself as I am,
lost on an empty boulevard without pants,
crouched and feral, fumbling a paper crown.

This desire is a thing cut loose, isn’t it?
It’s beyond shame—how can I say it?
I want words to set me free, and still nothing,

no lone star guides me westward, no epiphany.
My daybreak heart rages, and still I won’t wake.
Dear Carpenter,

carve me a voice that can burn and not burn up.
Dear Master Calligrapher, what is in a signature, if not fire?
I want my signature to hurt, every letter a branding.

I want to wake waterlogged, forehead
marked by a stranger’s kiss. In this storm,
Dear Ghost, a day is as long as the heart requires.

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Matthew Carlin
Poet

Matthew has previously been published in Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Vinyl, and Bodega

Photography by Chrissa Giannakoudi