by Ronnie Sirmans

epithalamium prayer in sevens

In light, we start. The sun shares
a bright countenance with you.
You are an open cluster
that I shall observe until 
a stellar fusion redshifts.  
Like a lily among thorns,
this bond finds the sky and grace.
     
“And He had in His right hand 
seven stars.” – Revelation. 
On the shoulder of a bull, 
stars persevere night to night.
For you, I will stretch out all
the heavens, and all their host 
shall welcome this beginning.

We pray sweet influences, 
and like Job and God’s counsel,
ties are not put asunder.
God: Man does not bind the stars. 
Job: No, only each other. 
The naked eye will not see 
what a whirlwind can obscure. 

Darkness helps illuminate
Pleiades in the distance,
angels in the Milky Way, 
ephemeral, infinite.
And you are a great fury 
who names my constellations 
and can cover the heavens.

Seven daughters, seven sons? 
No, only the two of us, 
and the one vow that’s hard-won.
And how long will the blaze burn?
Do not think of the ashes.
God: Who begets drops of dew?
Job: Only you make air weep.

The Triple Seven flies high, 
finds clouds that leaven the world, 
slips through deities’ fingers. 
We hold hands and watch the planes 
as we await the ascent
for a honeymoon’s orbit
before the long nights ahead.

The vow and now the future,
aureate bands now entwined.
Faith can encompass novas,
sidereal daily bonds
that speak of hallelujahs.
We spoon, measure, taste the dark.
Let’s savor good nights. Amen.

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Ronnie Sirmans is an Atlanta print newspaper digital editor whose poetry has appeared in Fathom, Sojourners, Ekstasis, Reformed Journal, America, Heart of Flesh, and elsewhere.

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