we hurt, we think, we pray, we grow
It’s the way
I couldn’t stop thinking
about what I wasn’t doing,
and who I wasn’t being.
It’s the way
every house has a scent
but mine had many:
Carolina Texas Germany Midwest.
It’s the way
I sought my reflection in something opaque
a size four dress or bowl of mint chip:
losing teeth losing faith.
It’s the way
I had a tendency to lose things
for instance my molars,
and everything else I believed in.
I could never figure out
the meanings in old quilts
I never understood
pain of wordless prayers
but we put our stories
in tangible things
we hold tight, pray,
and wait.
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