It’s pathetic how I configured myself into a prayer, yet every tableau split apart like firewoods. Such an unfaithful thing wearing out the trophy of God — or maybe it is how
things propel a balance between two horizons?
On my last birthday, I had a lump tongue. which means I have lived my whole life praying against inferno and stones. which
means, I once fetched a meal from my father’s acute history. Again My sister is another goddess, her butterflies thirst. I preach her in my stomach often. Yesterday, a big reddish onion gassed
Into my eyes and my bleeds desperately yearns for a spring. Is this how a bone finds comfort from the cracks of times? Before this poem — I tremble a confession; I sow a
crescent on my tongue. Perhaps each moment I ablaze my image — its smoke melted into quite the heritage of my ancestry. Reminding me that I’ve always been grief complete.
Another kind of boy who looks into the mirror; french his dialect to a boat. Which is to say — in my prayers, like a rolling ball, I still remind God of my birthplace. My knee too, a crucifix
of the body I couldn’t win. A flower withers in my compound. And I forgot the spelling of Grace. Let’s assume here, that Grace is a brief thing fading into salt waters. Inside my mouth