I do not need the once a week passing of the peace, preferring / the wheat smell of my dog’s paws or daily nods to strangers / passing.
God must have realized / he made a mistake with my stigmata / that he marked the wrong person with a holy holey hand
I’m a mourning dove praising the sting of / a thousand little deaths— I’m dawn slipping / beneath the sandman’s sheets— I’m a backlit / peak— I’m a dandelion giving props / to the sun
it will be holy / it will be most holy / everything / set up / placed / and set out / placed / and set up / placed / and burned
My mother believes in God because of creativity. Not mine, not hers, not anyone in specific, but because it births itself through us; through our keyboards, our pens, our paintbrushes, our chisels, our pianos, forcing itself through channels we cannot control.
I wait for you under a weeping birch. / I will climb through forked branches / to seek the message you’ve come for.
not all scars / tell a story / or were deserved
A solitary cumulous / in a sea of space
No ginger virgin, hands modest to sex and breast, / flesh fallow, fecund as sky gone to seed in the sea . . .