St. John of Damascus

The gold frame, swung crooked again

draws my eye—and rehearsing: stepladder

and shift, retreat, observe, stepladder, shift

again, more to the right—deciding all

of that was still far too much to be born.

I think it hangs that way, anyway.

And the poster print of ships in deep harbor

behind the glass likes a slant—pitching decks

more pitched. I lean back, stroke the table’s grain

and think—if I can be forgiven for quoting

a saint—I will not cease from praising

matter, through which my salvation was worked.

My Sister Walking on Sand

As she steps, the small bones

of her small foot

lift to press against her skin,

stretched over them

like pink bats’ wings.

I can hear her joints groaning

as her arms swing

and everything floats on the surface

as she shivers into the ocean.

-Abigail