DEVIL'S IN THE HOUSE

n the looms of our bones we are constantly weaving together memories & blood. Soon we will look like warm, bright tapestries, our hearts woolen & indigo-dyed, our tongues a mess of ragged knots. We wait for God to unravel us so our mistakes can be remade into other people's perfections. We walk the streets half-finished & yet alive. Here, in the wishing well of your collarbone. Here, in the museum made of light that is your skin. Do you feel it, the real miracle, your cells multiplying? How your wounds knit themselves back together after you fall? The real miracle, your smiling mouth in spite of everything. The constant message of lungs: Keep going. Keep going. Keep going.