I need to watch trees like air in my mouth / The long green gulp, tender bow and breath, / Lilt of leaf on winding edge—swell into me.
slip tiny sheets / of paper / through the cracks / of my skin
"And I thought it was empty / And I promised it was empty / As I held it to his head"
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.