Numb Psalm
If you are
love, then
bend her hand
around our
doorknob again.
Or, descend upon me
in a pillow-shaped cloud:
smother my useless breath.
Mop the rotten
wine I am spilled
across the kitchen floor.
Wring me into
new wine skins.
Skin me again. Make
gloves you work
the garden with.
Squeeze me
from my body
like the last dollop
in a package of fast
food ketchup.
Grind this, my weary
horse meat, into a glue
that binds me to You.
