Poetry

I am the bowl,

the break,

and the gold between.

What was undone in me

the light now seams shut —

and I, at last,

am held.

My mother taught me

to fold the linen

the way she folded prayer —

with patience for the creases.

Every line a confession.

Every fold a forgiveness.

Some mornings I wake

to a body I do not recognize

and call it grace.

Some evenings I unname myself

and call that grace, too.

Soft thing,

you survived the weather you were born into.

Now sit. Eat the warm bread.

Let the hour be unhurried.

Let yourself be slowly loved.