In my devotion, the candle was dumb.
It came to me in birds.
It came to me scuffed with thrust.
It came to me withered, split.
It came to me silent as a knife, fat with treasure.
It was a feather pluming my plow,
a borrowed dress dragged to dust.
In my absence, I could not find the husk.
Shame sailed its own boats.
Moat and drawbridge, I sent my hair down.
The instructions unraveled until I was one less
person than I promised to be.
The harp would lessen my fall. It pawed
my lap like every good story. It gulped light.
Threaded with regrets, each column stands
for forgiveness, bends like a bride toward
the disappointment of her promise.
The prayer unspoken. My body
as surprising as morning before
it is broken open.