St. John of Damascus
The gold frame, swung crooked again
draws my eye—and rehearsing: stepladder
and shift, retreat, observe, stepladder, shift
again, more to the right—deciding all
of that was still far too much to be born.
I think it hangs that way, anyway.
And the poster print of ships in deep harbor
behind the glass likes a slant—pitching decks
more pitched. I lean back, stroke the table’s grain
and think—if I can be forgiven for quoting
a saint—I will not cease from praising
matter, through which my salvation was worked.
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My Sister Walking on Sand
As she steps, the small bones
of her small foot
lift to press against her skin,
stretched over them
like pink bats’ wings.
I can hear her joints groaning
as her arms swing
and everything floats on the surface
as she shivers into the ocean.
-Abigail