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Life-Blood
A church.
Honey rows of wood meeting in an arc
high above warm light, the wine-colored
carpet splitting pews like
an axillary artery running between ribs.
I could make this easy,
say that spicy-sweet incense fumes
or Caucasian Jesus stretched like
melting wax across the crucifix
make me believe in God's existence,
but they don't.
Instead, my sister standing in a black coat,
mist rising from pavement as verdant
blades of grass slice through musty dirt,
or my fingers pressed tight against my wrist
feeling the hum of life-blood against my skin.
Maybe its my cousin, whose cradle-capped
head once flaked newborn skin collecting
in her tawny hair;
her mother combing it out with a damp cloth
and baby oil.
Now she stands on doughy legs and gushes
smiles at my presence.
I could also say that rain on a windshield
spreading like roots
across the glass solidifies my belief,
a sonata humming through strings,
reverberating off of the rigid curves of
a violin's walls;
two-year-old babbles filling the body cavity
of a church.
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