I sit in front of you,
watching sparks peel
away, carried to the bottom
of my blues. Not my eyes,
but workout pants. I did not
workout in the traditional way.
No walking, jogging, or running.
I sat on a rocking chair, leaves
blown by breath to join cloistered
What I am told,
no sung, I am worth
more than. Today,
these leaves communed,
hushed to the ground as I
smiled and laughed childishly
with a distanced friend over Jesus
being a ghost. He’s as the real
as your flame warming the pain
down within my belly. I can’t look
at you seeing fury. I can only wonder
if Moses taking off his shoes
on holy ground, slackened
his muscles as my joy falling
prey to your dying wishes.