Her lips hiss truth, not like a sword, like a serpent A still small voice as big as the sea Her hips carry suffering, not like a cross, like a cradle The infinite weight of

It is not a breaking through, a reaching down, a pulling up. We are not running, cunningly, past drunken guards to enter in. It cannot be kept from within. Our loose, liquid, bodies are not

I. She is mighty to save. Her arms are at least half hanging skin from carrying, birthing, mourning souls. Souls are heavy. Bodies are heavy, even of tiny children. Her love has gravity. It will

Star child, I wanted to believe in you For so long— Ever longing, I cherished you Holiest of babes born to mankind! I grasped at the clear glow that surely Must have slanted from the

In the shadow of the hospital, he cradles a box of Triscuits to his chest — tenderly, like a more delicate load. I joke about the familiar gesture, then when my empty arms return home,

please bless the brothers the fathers, the sons to see themselves in God / to see in God themselves to hear their lives through hymns, scripture, law to find their self on top, in language,