“I’m curious what you would say,”
she mused, “if they weren’t
characters in a book, but standing here?”
You hugged me. All our tears were fish, dead and bloated at the surface.
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As she handed me my boarding pass, she asked if anyone had ever said I looked like Jesus. I was feeling frisky, so I leaned forward and whispered, “I am Jesus.” She gasped. “I’m a good Catholic girl—don’t say that!”
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Listen, you’re safe now.
Inshallah, breathe easier—
every breath is valuable
& must be done with focus.
I miss the big navels when they are not in season,
but almost any orange will do when I really want to see God.
She was my own mother’s voice
when mom was reaching
as deep inside as she could
for the sound of a wing on
a tender prayer
and strength is a pantomime of courage
played for the lights of a burned out marquee
before an audience eroding one by one—
some decomposing where they sit, the rest
just rising to forget they ever came.