In the night hush

Knees drop again, in the vulnerable night

when the others have left for that show

and the apartment leans into the shadows

like butter melting into bread. It’s me again.

Did you miss me?

I’m sure you have the plea memorized by now.

I deliver it every day like flowers to a grave,

hoping against hope that they’ll bloom this time,

take root and break through the stone and ceremony,

take back the land with hope instead of dying things.

Do you hear me? Do I even believe me anymore?

How many prayers does it take to find him?

If my heart falters, bows its head,

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goes to wipe at phantom tears,

will the prayer fall through like rain breaking

through clouds? If it hurts, will it stop?

Knees drop again.

It’s me, God.

It’s me.

Celestial navigation

Dead reckoning—I’m pushing aside stars

and systems looking for you. Reading the constellations

like maps—the Big Bear sips

from the Dipper’s warm cup,

cowering in the face of Orion’s milky club.

You have to be up there,

because down here is too hard to bear.

Celestial navigation should point me to the stars.

I’ve been looking for signs so long

that the light they spotted grows fuzzy—

how hard is it to look the stars straight on,

face to face,

gleam to glimmer?

So intent on the charts

you miss the journey.

Blind me if you have to,

I’m not coming down without the north star.