Sometimes, God in me is a broken rib. When not a word rings true. When every poem tastes like stale bread.
Still, then, I know. This is my breath, and there is that place where God means anything, everything, and the most delicate nothing at all.
Have you ever wandered on the fields beyond the fall? No before, no after. No right, no wrong.
Turn me to face where love has no rules—no rules too sacred to smile and smash and see how all these lights inside dance. Where my eyes are yours and that’s the law of it all.
Sometimes, God in me is the promise of a broken rib. Where he’s the bride, and she took my name.
