We’re journeying
Through
something,
not just a time
and space-like
nothing
but something
that needles
the string through
my skin
and yours
and our neighbor’s,
pot-bellied
in his Pontiac,
forgetting his
hand holds
the ability
to wave.
I used to think
in terms
of severed
scraps of
fabric,
all of us,
scattered
heartbeats
and useless
religions,
and I
blended
my theories
and forced
them
through
the straw
to make you
drink.
But then you kept
talking
to Jesus
three-years-old,
in your bedroom,
in a house,
where Jesus
wasn’t asked
to live.
How did you
meet Him?
What did He say?
And could
He thread
our rusted needle
and mend
us the way
your tender
heart
had hoped
us
to be?
Ericka Clay 
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