We spoke in tongues. No one taught us sacrament so we invented our own. We ask thee in the name of thy son to bless and sanctify this spit. This sweat.
You turned into light.
That’s the only explanation.
Your body turned into vibrations.
I can’t see you because
you are everywhere now.
As your body lets go
of every atom
you dance into our dark.
Dear God of Thrift Stores. Holy Handmedown Lord of the Secondhand. I come to you impoverished and ironic to sink my fingers into your junkbins and sift through your innards. I come to you to make wholes out of incompletes, newandimprove a brokedownbeatup, to stitch together echoes. I seek you on red tag days when…
You are flowing endlessly from a glacier
into the ocean. There are a bunch of fish inside of you.
Now, envision men with fishing gear stomping through your stomach.
This feeling is familiar. Embrace it.