Soup Before Nicea

I'm raised naked from the Belgian bed
by saints with vague rage, away
from your spoon of easy sleep. Over
the scatter of passion, past the hanging
basket and the mirrored man
to the running bath. Yesterday we stopped

beside the antelope, dead beneath the scudding
blood on the Sangre de Cristos, horns
holding its head off the road shoulder. Here
you found the unmarked grotto on the way
to Cuchara: ten steps uphill, a dotted cross of rock,
the loose weave of barbwire before the cup

of sandstone. With its Zen bells, Kachina dancers,
framed men with birds in their beard, mothers
of God. No wonder a dozen medallions hung
from the rusted fence. Faded silk flowers. A stitched
blue fish with crosses for eyes. You added
the bracelet you bought in Alamosa, took me down

the hill again and home the long way without
mention of the mélange, the way the live vine
wound about the offerings or my recent fear
of mixing up religions. I want to believe
the dead nod in rockfall, douse my head
and have you towel off the wet rest

of me. Then, we'll make bouillabaisse -
six kinds of fish and a sharp knife. I'll count
threads of saffron in my palm, you take
the big spoon. They say this can't be made
outside Marseille. I'm betting on your bare
feet on the stone floor, the look in your eyes.