We called it soul-saving.
A real salvation
in our resounding knocks
that echoed with no core
and frayed at the edges
like the fires raging behind
their backs as we asked them
if they had just a moment for Christ today.
Every door was a chilling
tile of a mosaic
made of the sins
we have yet to commit.
We made saviors of sinners
as we took their hands and
hummed along to the hymnsThat Pastor’s sabbath burrowed
within us, made homes from real love
and real love from
fracturing the crater
where hearts once stood.It all became a susurrus
of resurrections, each more
frightening than the last.

We learned to love
like an empty room
loves the presence of

silently pressing into
the folds of what has
begun again.

Emptiness preyed
at every corner and
rested in the crease of
your palms as
you sank to your knees
and begged for redemption.

I never read the pamphlets we carried,
just traced the pictures
over and over again
with my holy hands
wondering of the man
engulfed in flames,
he looked scared.

Worship without wonder
is to roll the boulder
over the ether of sky.

I have made God a miracle.
I don’t understand how
I could not—
when I fall, cradled
in the crook of prayer,
God falls.