I saw my soul become flesh breaking open
the linseed oil breaking over the paper
running down pouring
no one to catch it my life breaking open
no one to contain it my
pelvis thinning out into God
Claire met Jean only once. Jean gave a reading at our home in Utah, next to Zion National Park, on her way to a Buddhist retreat. I’ve seen her several times since. She’s quiet, observant. When Claire died she was one of few people who knew what to say, or not to say, about my loss. We sat in the Buddhist center in New York several hours, not saying much, having tea, green tea, lots of green tea. Annunciation could have called for a lot of dark color, linseed oil, and suffering lines. Instead, I went the other way and drew an angel, in lots of space: the solace she prayed for.