by Lauren Gordon
Planted in a chair all morning
[so many mornings] your mouth hums
around a spoon.
The rind of the moon hangs
in the window: an epistle, brilliant.
Last night [all nights]
your hands groped my disconnected
face;
the moon, then, an imprint on glass.
Last night your hands found each other
in perfect worship as you finally slept against me.
I prayed, too:
No one can tell you how to be still
or what it means to be ecclesiastical
alone.
I don’t know if there will be enough God left to go around
when you are older. I don’t know if you will find incredible light
in your windows.
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