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Some things are an inevitable twisted mix of humor and fate. Like the magic bullet that passed through a testicle and lodged itself on an ovary impregnating the forlorn maiden waiting for her mate, no more. Or perhaps the rain that I can’t stop from knocking, rapping, morphing into rocks and hurling itself upon my bedroom door. This is where my poem takes off.

I don’t know why the threat of physicality
makes people praise or leave the Lord, but it does.

We once had a talk when you asked
–Why can’t you just talk to God, straight to God?
I changed the topic of conversation
Accepting some other merciful lie

I don’t know how to explain to you
the bumps on my back
the last two surgeries I had
How the saints came and said cry no more
How praying with two strangers settled me down
How the Virgin that smelled of fresh dew
mountain rose took it all away

Some things you’ll never understand
hey– I don’t have the power to comprehend
Like a ball-piercing-bullet striking gold
or why you look for copies of me in every art show
and settle with a flat chested square
when you’re the round hole

So, I’m gonna morph into this word called love
And never answer a call
And never return an email
While I keep dressing saints,
praying strength
making rosaries to frame
tasting words like “extirpar”
that smell of hospital and sweat

If I have to be strong enough
to go at this alone
then, I’ll be praying to Jesus
that he’ll hold my hand
that he’ll make me smile
You’ve already left
but I know he’s gonna be here
My Jesus is gonna be here soon