by Loré Yessuff
what is the color of wholeness, maybe indigo maybe marigold maybe forest green,
surveyed the highest brow and instead learned how to say sorry, learned that the center of
everything isn’t too far from the rim, maybe mama’s amens ain’t conjecture after all
after all, there are holy places everywhere that crowded bus, that spice aisle, that bedroom
at half-light, how else can I explain
at the end, we’re all just complicated
shapes trying to untangle each other, trying to stay
stay warm, dip our feet in wading water, hold
hold someone barehanded and—
perhaps I should just speak for myself
perhaps in a past life, I went to heaven but today I’m twerking
to Sufjan in the living room and my neighbor is chanting yas lawd
yas and the shining in her mouth feels like it’s pure enough
for any interpretation of God, feels like a prayer
and an answer amen amen