Ordinary Devotion

When I find the water too tepid

I allow my fingers to plié.

On the rounded, porcelain stage, I offer the performance of my life.

When their words resemble an onslaught of interminable traffic

I become the dramaturge

I rearrange tedium into tango and the contentions of their convention

into syllabic song.

Distant? I indulge the sound of his voice

allow its timber to stroke my skin

hold the small of my back

and bathe the entirety of my torso.

He swallows me WHOLE.

In moments unbearably laconic

I stand and span my wings as wide as the sycamore

and take in all available words of puissance

for the epic I will write.

When I feel the air’s weight

and the chafing of my thoughts

I walk outside and press my ear against the wind.

I release languor

and receive the angels’ charge.

And thus, I pray.