SPURNED OFFERING

Nobody knows how the story began. 

I lay myself with the saints, 

I burn. 

I offer my palms to receive the grace

Of the lord, and still, 

I burn. 

What salvation is there for the newly damned?

What miracle will make a home

Out of the heaviness of the emptiness we carry?

I fold my tongue into small prayers, and again,

I burn. 

The songbird trapped in the floorboard flapping

Its wings as if to sing pity into the ears of the god

Of flight. Reinvention is meant not for people 

Like me: the longing inside my bones 

Is melting my soft, silky skin to ashes. 

Blue lights, wilting roses, 

What are we all if not songbirds

Trapped in a floorboard, each of us 

Yearning To experience the joy 

Of flight?

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Cover photo by Bernadetta Watts