When Hosea Met Gomer

Love me like you would love a prostitute­.

Pursuing me into the lairs of my lovers,

Patiently yet persistently coaxing me from the arms and touch of lust.

Let lust be erased from my memory, better yet from my tongue.

For when I speak it will not be of another idol—a man-made God confessed by these lungs,

But this tongue will return tender words of their own,

And I will not only utter them, they will trickle from my mouth in the form of a song.

It will be like the melody I once sung in my youth, because this is all I know how to respond.

And even though you know my taste of the idols isn’t completely gone.

You still accept these words: “your prostitute, excuse me, your bride is now home.”

—O. D. M


The Answer

What if I had the answer to your broken heart.

The possibility to mend what no other has

Shaping the blood dripping flesh into the semblance of an angel

Pulling and pressing till perfection forms.

Yet, what if is an illusion, because what I can only do is love what has already been created.

To be the eyes gazing at the irregular construction that is chipped and bruise from time,

To be the hands to hold you—not create you,

To be the one who lifts you to the light

And says,

Wow, what if…what if this beauty was never mine.

—O. D. M

Run Red River

Run red river,

To wash the screams, to cease the cries.

Oh joy! How sweet would it be…

For your waters to seep through the soil to the roots of me.

Run red river,

To cleanse the reddened eyes of a frightened girl.

Oh joy! How sweet would it be…

For the drippings of your waters to cool the inside of me.

Run red river,

To silence all I fear, to be the melody I hear.

Oh Joy! How sweet would it be…

For your rushing waters to be the orchestra playing through me.

Run Red River.

Oh, sweet, red river run.

— O. D. M

Wounded Man

Wounded man, wounded man,

Allow me to explore your scars.

To dip my feet in the laceration of your heart,

To be the traveler of you.


Wounded man, wounded man,

Allow me to explore your scars.

To venture through the tales of war waged between gods.


Wounded man, wounded man,

Allow me to explore your scars.

To emerge with flesh dripping from the blood of you;

Then to paint the sins of an injured man onto the canvas of my heart.


Wounded man, wounded man of mine.


—O. D. M




Breath is what slips from our lungs

When eyes behold the boundless beauty of your dance.

Yes, entranced we are,

But if you believe our awe resides in the grace of your feet as they leap from this earth,

And of you joining the angels in their flight to kneel at God’s throne;

Or when your legs rise like a wave

Reaching to kiss the Heavens for only but a minute,

You are mistaken.

Breathless we have become,

For no longer is the girl whose heart once seemed a burdensome load.

Breathless we will ever be,

For here,

On our stage,

Dancing with a grace claimed by no other,

Sways a woman who moves souls.


—O. D. M