i do not live in this word
am not bitter, broken, or swoon
not scarred or ripped or
bleeding any of these types of blood.
you call me a wretched mistake of a word
and do not know
how I own every vein barbed around this heart,
have collected the scraps in this junk yard of a soul
for giving, gifts for you that I make
when you are away,
pretending the world has no spirits
watching you, living in you
and I make beautiful things
with these old window screens, these shards of glass,
and belt buckles
the missing father i found in a mirror
and a lady a lot like my mother who whimpers in my voice
and I am miracle
an arts and craft collage of some God
who has too much time on and in his hands.
a man who makes love with this woman
a woman who lives in the hands of some God.