I am so easily distracted by things that breathe, stories that dwell in the deep-calls-to-deep. A soft body, feet of clay that are held bare on the holiness of the earth. The nape of your neck a warm map, the skin that you keep hidden. How the sight of a small bird in the undergrowth calls you to quiet. How you say the word, wren, like a prayer. All the ways in which you do not believe in God—how your mouth is a wet church filled with wonder.

© Liezel Graham 2021.

{image by Nine Koepfer, on Unsplash}