Lord, let us come to life, the intake
of breath after
stale air, a churning sunrise,
mist falling back
of color-cracked galaxies.
let us reach up and touch it—
a ripple and then it crashes down,
cool motion and foam at our feet.
Mosquito bites tattoo our ankles.
A stone bench with blue velvet
lacing the horizon,
as words try to capture what a lifetime means.
My words beaten into formulas,
a Babylon Tower.
They do not hold the breath of sparrows,
the soft chanting of the lake.
In the 3 minutes and 30 seconds it takes for my bagel to toast, I lie on the floor with my Bluetooth speaker sitting right above my ponytail. It plays Jewish Violin Music, the high notes like cold water, trickling over the top of my head to my fingertips. I close my eyes and only feel what the music tells me to feel:
Longing. So much longing.
Anguish so deep it darkens your soul but is still somehow beautiful.
And then the toaster oven dings and I eat and I write an essay about Deism, Concurrentism, Divine Compositionalism, and Occaisonalism. But outside the window, the row of skinny evergreen trees sway in the wind like a row of hooded monks in prayer.
Wasps burrow into my ears,
sleek bodies wriggling deeper, scrambling legs
scraping the small hairs of my ear canal.
Wait, every cell alert,
for needle to venom my veins: black threads to strangle my mind,
damage the fragile structure forever.
I am irreparable.
I attempt to pick them out with tweezers
but they pluck apart – bits of abdomen and orange blood
mashed against my eardrum
but I know:
a stinger can release its venom even after the wasp’s death.
your heart short-circuits to get free
cracks your ribs if that’s what it takes. Blood
dripping dark from the crook of your arm
spatters of ink on the bedspread. Apologize for the stains.
You don’t remember
when spider-wires entangled your pulse
when you woke oxygen strangled
praying for sunlight.