Everything meant
never and always were the same
bird, two doves, the way
wound is just a shape and holds
two words: what the cloth had done around
the body and what the body suffered.
If you have kept your promise this morning,
you, too, have practiced resurrection.
Days passed—when at last I begged
for a sign to know the end of all things
beginning, I meant waking so
often in the dark had left me small
and faithless, afraid of waiting.
The room feels thin and changes and if
what's broken in can speak it keeps silent. I've never said
the same word twice, not even in prayer, is that not faith?
I'll tell you this: being heard feels like a miracle.
I sit as still as I can. Then there's everything sounding
out clearly but softly and not quite in language—sit with me, listen.