love, love is gonna lead you by the hand
into a white and soundless place
now we see things, as in a mirror dimly
then we shall see each other face to face
– The Mountain Goats

how do i write about
faithfulness
when the word feels
too small?
here’s what language
can’t quite carry:
how you smell familiar now,
of sweetgrass and smoke
of sacred earth and ocean air
of snake signs and dreamcatchers
of whiskey and wine–
of truth
and memory–

how, like the tang of blood and rain
on a rusted fence post,
your name tastes like iron in my mouth,
and i savor it
like Eucharist–
how the way you
weave your words
is like molasses–
and dusk–
like honey–
and starlight–

how i revel
in the rhythm of your heart,
in the music of your hope–

how for seventeen years,
your hands were on the wheel,
mine pressed against the window,
watching moments blur
like trees in our rearview mirror–
how sitting in your old Blazer
outside gas stations
and in graveyards
talking about the songs
you want to write,
about butterflies in your eyes
when she said yes,
about the way sorrow settles
in the spaces between your ribs
and stays there–

how you've seen me
ugly cry–
over things
that don't matter
and
things
that matter
too much–

how we’ve both raged at the news,
at the loss, at the wrongs,
at the way everything beautiful
seems to break
eventually–
how we’ve both marveled at God
and wept over death
and held space–
brave
fierce
infinite space
for us to be
who we are–
how your voice
cuts through
whatever darkness I’m carrying–
how we always seem
to find each other
wandering in no man’s land,
and somehow,
we can make a table there–
tell me–
how do I thank someone
for seventeen years
of being the constant
in a world
that won’t
stop
changing?

maybe we’ve seen too much,
but I don't mind the burden–
i’d carry it all
a thousand times
for one more moment
driving down the highway
to the mountains
or the coast,
playing Mountain Goats,
and listening to you
conjure magic
at the wheel.
maybe some things
are too sacred for words,
too deeply threaded
into the fabric
of who we are.
still–
I’ll try anyway:

Brother,
when you enter a room
when you talk about baseball
when you sing like nobody’s listening–
when you say “take five?” or “one more, then bed”
when you play your song,
i know
i'm home.