this sunday the sun will rise
like a eucharist wafer,
white & papery behind a hum 
of clouds. i will walk out
inside the town, incense trailing
from my mouth & my nose
& i will think of the bodies
of gods & how desperately
we try to know them. 
the red hot smoldering
at the pit of my self
was lit by a wayward match.
i used to burn myself 
like patchouli or frankincense 
& the smoldering skin
became scabs & the scabs became
the pot holes i drove my car across
through the city 
that one night
when we should have taken the train
but instead got lost over & over.
i miss the menagerie 
of light. i didn't see one firefly 
this whole year-- but this poem
is not about my own saddnesses
this poem is about god
& how i collect wildflowers 
in an attempt to know 
that divine. pink, white, 
& indigo. lay them on the nightstand
to curl up & thin. i don't know
if i have ever prayed--
what i do remember is sitting
in a quiet too-large church
as we all kneeled infront of 
a single eucharist wafer. god is narrow
as a withered mountain flower.
i'd run out of things to say to him
& start listing everything 
i worried about: how will i get
my father to show he loves me, how will
i get the attic unlocked, how will i help
my grandmother's ghost, who is going to
help my mom boil the water
for the pot of pasta. no answer
just a vast wavering. the hard wood
of the pew becoming the forest rising 
around my little home. i could climb a tree
& make wafers of my body up there.
i don't own any gold 
or any silver to hold
my body.

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