I want you to read this when you
are alone and maskless and know
words, unmasked, breathe freely,
one’s breath against another’s
shoulder, syllabic fingertips
on the back of a hand, a neck,
a question mark unbuttoning
a sentence.
I want you to say this as if
it could be said, as if the sky
would open, as if a mouth could mask
a mouth into salvation. Choose a phrase
to repeat, a phrase so serious
it must end in amen. Then,
fold the paper like a breeze
rustling a palmetto, a breeze
nesting in shreds of light and shadow,
wings settling. Remember how
the torn envelope caught its breath?
And the opening page’s clumsiness,
knowing it was about to say
what it didn’t know how to say.
