a splinter of light piercing me
from behind—
i move like a humbled bird across the floor.
i’m writing poems again
with god’s upturned palm
against the back of my thigh.
a sweet wind like honey and ash
coats the latitude of my throat,
lungs & stomach thick
with the warm syrup of speech.
gently, kindly, god moves his hand
along the curve of my ass, teasing
its pores, loosening the muscles.
he places a poem inside me,
pulls it out. pushes the poem
back in until it runs
slack between my legs.
it occurs to me that this is a form of prayer.
so i begin to read the poem aloud to him,
and wake alone to the breath of slow cars
passing under my window at night,
a cross of honey and ash
smudged across my forehead.
