Some years ago, I began shredding 

my tongue, crumbling the chapel 

once built in my mouth.   I retired 

my eyes watching the hills—they sang,

help will somebody water down, but daily

I died of thirst.   Once, I tried to fetch God

with language; my voice—white ink 

stitching white paper.   There were no 

angels to colour my ache.   Perhaps 

I'm oblivious to the dialect of heaven,

I gave God a wound to heal & he placed 

a ribbon around the bleed.   As if to say,

look at your blood, pray & it will blue into 

a stream.   But I do not know what to 

weave from faith.   Prayer reminds me 

what absence tethers me from,

when I fold myself to kneel as a saint,

a lily wilts before my teeth.   As if to say,

crawl to your mother's feet & confess your

unbelief.   How do I say I am a church bell

swaying without its tongue?   Her heart—

a holy book my chaos must not set on fire.