Epektasis

I carried the name
before I knew what to do with my mouth.
It lay folded in me
like a Sabbath coat—
itch at the neck,
rain held in the cuffs,
waiting.

Among other voices—
their quick shine—
I learned stillness.
How it looks like sense
when watched.

God did not frighten me.
It was the faces.
A room tightening
as if air could be measured.

Time wore that fear thin.
Something else set in:
the split—
tongue one way,
hands another.

So I say the words.

At night
when the house gives up its heat
and the windows tick.
Wind worrying the frame.

Before dawn,
before the hills un-crease,
before the day takes my name
for its use.

Often I forget.
Hours go slick,
quietly spent.
Later—
an ache,
like a bruise found
by accident.

I come back by touch.

The stair’s complaint.
The lamp turned until it catches.
The fridge door:
cold light,
a jar sweating,
the blunt smell of milk.

I stand there
longer than needed.

Our Father—

Through the wall
a neighbor’s kettle.
Someone’s floorboard.
A cough, then silence.
The words keep going
without me.

Your name
stops in my teeth.
It has weight.
It shakes.

Morning arrives.
The tap runs.
The spoon rings the mug.
A slice of bread
toasts, darkens,
gives off its small heat.
Butter softens,
slides.

My hands hover,
then open.

Some names I cannot lift.
Some faces stay hard.
Here the words thin.
I stay.

The phone brightens
on the table
like a small altar.
My thumb knows the way.
I do not move.
I do.
I don’t.

Fire is not a figure.
It takes what it takes.
I learn my measure
by standing.

Still I weep—
not because You are gone,
but because I am not whole.

I bring this distance
and set it down
with the other things—

keys in a dish,
yesterday’s cup,
the coat on the chair
I keep meaning
to hang.

Let the room hold.
Let it be enough
to stay.

Let breath come back
unfinished.