By Bread Alone

I have been in love since the moment
I was born, little heart full
of devotion, and greedy to give
it away. Dull-haired boys with rocks
in their pockets on the playground—
later, the lanky moods of tall beauties
in high-school corridors—but also books,
cats, pop lyrics worn smooth like stones
from overuse, dreams of distant lands
and the lives to be lived there—all
have been gifted with this love of mine,
all to return it. But as by some magical blessing
(or curse?) it comes back to me not diminished
for having been spent, but multiplied,
like those astonishing baskets of bread.
There is always more to go around than needed.
And so I go, with my heart in my pocket
and the heavy basket on my back, looking
for feet to lay them down at.
Oh yes, I know, no need to tell me—
why not lay it before the Lord, he will
accept it gladly. I agree—that is
the worthiest possible answer. But I’ve not only
a greedy heart, but also greedy hands.
A greedy mouth that will not be satisfied
by bread alone. For whom,
this burden of tenderness?
For whom, the weight of my kisses?
The Lord is always with me:
but he is lighter than a feather on the breeze,
and too preoccupied with dancing. I want
warmth of muscle, grip of skin
and bones. And so I go—looking,
hungry, with a basketful of bread
on my back. And so
I go, searching for you, with the Lord
dancing behind me.