Needle and Thread

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?

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