Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
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Help me distinguish between approaching blizzard
and my man’s mouth against my ear, making my skin
whistle like a blade of grass. God, if you love me,
and I know You do, please help me keep my mind
at ease when he fevers beneath me, cold-hot
and wet, wet all over. The sheets have been soaked
and wringed and bleached. The carpet vacuumed,
the kitchen floor swept. God, help me keep
a clean home, keep the roaches’ running prayers
from competing with my own, keep the rats
from gnawing on the bread with filth and squeak.
Plastic won’t keep snow crystals from making
a second pane over the glass, won’t keep
the frigid nothingness from coming in
and lingering beneath our feet. Give me feet
that can sing, that can sing all over this floor
like a battalion of drums, stomp out the pests
and their late night scamper, stomp out the cold
crawling from beneath the plaster, stomp out
the heat pouring from my man’s never-dry back.
I want to heal like You do. God, let me walk on water.    

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