The beams reach high—to you As if you are not here, in the pew But you don’t mind it You come how we’re able Hallelujah The cross up there reminds me of the ones you put all over Torture as a decoration, hallelujah Like the one you pained for me at that pottery shop When I got myself baptized And Grandma Betty thought it was a waste You were my sanctuary—are? Do I still get to say that? While I learn to stand on the legs you knit for me in your womb? Which sort of makes them yours, I guess And I like that thought, hallelujah And I hope…
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When You Find What Doesn’t Belong
There is a sense in me of what belongs and - maybe more sharply - what doesn't.
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Keeping Myself Out of Heaven
What if the only reason I don't experience Heaven is because I'm not looking for it?
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With Us
I wrote this on the darkest day of the year. Because if this season is “about” anything, it’s about that.
