Despite Having the Key to Wonder


There will be no miracles here, but what a miracle

this is: a body bathed in bells and air. Sing Lord,

kindness knows no shame, but neither does my cruelty,

it’s boundless as a choir’s breath, has the buoyancy of

a beetle nailed to a silverbell. Shame is the lone survivor,

after her savior finds new holes to fill, the joy fading

from a vibrating throat. Sing Lord,



                              watch as my body becomes


                                            talisman, heirloom, bark and bite,


                 its chorus—a rising incantation. Lord, witness


                                                          my body, sustained. Sing me


                              my desires. Give them each a name.

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