She will do what she will do
no matter what words
your lips form into love knots,
no matter how long you stand
with your arms wrapping her sorrow.
There is nothing she will not do,
nothing held back. She is quicksand
seeded with landmines.
You must not walk here. Run.
Don’t look back. You could never save her.
Merciful Jesus, won’t you
gather her up like broken bread?
There is more than enough
to feed a multitude.
The miracle would be…
the miracle would be going back,
to before we did what we’ve done
to each other,
back to kindness, and loving
exactly how you came to me
raw and imperfect,
magic and raucous,
before I dreamed up all the ways
I might mold you
into something less mighty.
The miracle would be
waking up and discovering
heaviness dropped in the dark
and a wheel within a wheel, turning,
like a movie’s opening
repeating, repeating, repeating
the part where she
notices him, just briefly,
then carries on. The moment where
what happens next
is anyone’s guess.